Villisca
by amyblair
Summary: Dean and Sam have arrived in a familiar town with an old town haunt, one that holds special memories for one of the Winchesters. Dean has to help Sam survive while keeping himself safe as well. Story takes place after Jus In Bello.
1. Chapter 1

**Villisca**

**Disclaimer: **Don't own them. That would be Dr. Kripke and the gang at the CW. Just enjoyment purposes only. Any lyrics to any songs – also don't own them.

**A/N:** Okay, before you read this you should know the following, this loosely follows two of my previous stories, _Lost and Found_ and _Incognito_. However, it is not necessary to read either of the other two prior to this. It's self explanatory. It also follows the 3rd Season after Mystery Spot and Jus In Bello.

The Villisca House is a real haunted house in Villisca, Iowa. The story of the axe murders are, unfortunately true, and the house is one of the most haunted places in Iowa. I had the opportunity to go through the house one evening by candlelight and it was quite spooky. The other events that happen after the axes in my story are fictional. No other killings occurred in the house after the first murders.

I have also created a character who has a filthy mouth, so if you don't like the language, you may want to imagine he is saying something else.

Lastly, this is the last thing I am writing for a long time. Well, at least until Season 4 gets going. I'm tired. Hope you enjoy.

Oh, and Maz - if you're reading this, your email bounced back to me a couple of times so I edited it myself. Pick it apart, babe, let me know what I missed.

**Part One**

The blue minivan's brakes came to a screeching halt as it pulled up to the STOP sign. It needed a paint job and new upholstery inside, but it got her where she needed to go. The young mother pushed her dirty blonde hair out of her brown eyes and caught a quick glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. She needed new highlights. She'd have to call when she got home and make an appointment for herself. It was a luxury she allowed herself only twice a year. Money was tight all over. She started to shift her right foot off the brake and to the gas pedal when a scream startled her from behind her.

"Cheerios!" The three-year-old girl's leg bobbed up and down. "Mommy! More Cheerios!"

It was a small town and they were on a quiet street. She glanced around. No cars behind her honking as she made anyone late to anything. Just the old minivan rumbling at the four way stop. She looked over to the right automatically. Everyone looked to the right at that STOP sign even though no one really ever _looked_. She knew what was there, just as everyone in the town knew. It was the old murder house. She hated that place.

It was a very old house. The white paint was brittle against the wood. The windows were long and narrow, oddly shaped, haunting in their own right. Amityville-style. The yard was small, the grass not well kept in the summer and in the winter, the snow melted into hidden mud puddles scattered across the lawn. The house was deceivingly much bigger on the outside than on the inside, so she had been told.

She and her best friend had once dared each other to run into the house for fun at their first boy/girl party. She was fourteen-years-old and made it to the front porch. Her friend Amanda Brewer had looked in through one of the windows and yelled back that there was something already inside. But after Amanda's boyfriend had looked, too, he reassured the girls there was nothing in that old house. It was empty and safe.

The odd thing that the blonde recalled about that night, standing on that porch, was the kiss. She stole it from her best friend's unsuspecting and astonished boyfriend. Not to forget the shock on Amanda's face, either. Pulled the rug right out of that perfect want-to-be-cheerleader and robbed her of her first crush. He deserved better, anyway. But it didn't matter because Amanda Brewer lost more that night than just her boyfriend. She was one of the only two who actually went through with the dare and made it into the house.

But only one made it out.

And now it was only ghost hunters who ventured in. Skeptics would bring camera crews and spend the night. But the residences of Villisca, Iowa just chose not to see it. But they did discuss it. A lot. Town meetings gone bad. Trying, hoping, wishing the owners of the rundown haunt would have it bulldozed to the ground.

Things just had a way of happening there.

"Mommy!"

The mother smiled over her shoulder and reached down to the passenger side floorboard. She brought out a zip-loc baggie and handed it back.

"Drink!"

The young lady sighed and fumbled in her large purse until she felt the familiar smooth plastic. She brought out the pink Hello Kitty cup and gave it a jiggle.

"There's a little left," she commented as she passed that back as well. "Mommy doesn't have any more until we get home."

The toddler seemed to be content with that, her big pink lips wrapping around the spout of the cup, her blue eyes widening as she sucked. The mother turned her attention back to the road. Her foot lifted and she pressed on the accelerator. Old reliable made a hearty attempt to advance through the STOP sign and then chugged to a teetering halt.

"What the…" the mother's hands released the wheel and she put the gearshift in park. Turning the ignition, she tried again to get the minivan going. It rattled and irked in response, but refused to turn over. Damned car. The highlights would have to wait. The dark blonde grabbed for her oversized purse.

"Mommy, go."

She flashed a sweet smile over her shoulder for the second time. "The car's sick, honey. Mommy needs to call Daddy."

She started to fish through the large bag, searching for the tiny phone. Her fingers slinked around the hard fake chrome and pulled it out. Flipping the phone on, her fingers knowingly flew to dial her husband at work when something caught her eye. She looked up to see an older man with graying hair and a large face running from around the back of the murder house. Blood was streaming from his head, running down his face. His big arms were raised above his head, his hands waving frantically as he fled.

The mother startled a second, her fingers freezing over the cell phone buttons as she watched him clear the corner of the lot and stream through the snow onto the front lawn. He was shouting and howling, cursing and pleading. As his face came into the light, she could see past the blood and thought there was something she recognized.

The young mother instantly scrambled in her seat, unlatching the safety belt and pulling on the door handle. She nervously peeked into the car seat behind her. "Mommy'll be right back," she promised to innocent ears.

She closed her phone and then flipped it back open. "Sir!" she called to the man as he ran in her direction.

His eyes narrowed at her. "Go!" He shrieked back to her. "Go away!"

She stopped at his words, her foot just resting on the snowy curb of the lawn. Her fingers quickly dialed 911. She pushed send and waited. "I'm calling for help!" she hollered.

The man suddenly collapsed to his knees his hands stretched out, palms towards her, motioning her to stop. He had made it three quarters of the way through the yard, the snow melting away as his thick body hit it. His eyes locked on her and he grabbed hold of his shirt over his chest. "Emily," he whispered and then his hands rose to pull at the small hairs gracing his head. His voice rose to a wailing moan. "The noise!" The snow quickly altered, turning into slush surrounding him.

The woman stilled. Her heart skipped a beat and she felt the white Earth around her start to shift. Move. An eerie feeling crept around her, like when she had once walked across a cemetery at midnight and the time she touched her Grandmother's cold dead cheeks. And then there was the time...

A hollow whisper resonated, mummified to her left eardrum and then her right. Her hand started to tremble, shaking the phone that was still pressed to her ear. "Hello?" She spoke into the receiver but it was the air that responded in a faint murmur.

"_Forever."_

Forever? A crinkle occurred over the bridge of her nose in confusion. She looked to each end of the yard, her sight easily gliding to the street on both sides. There was no one there. Just the man, who was now slumped face forward. His head was pressed down in mud, one of the many hidden puddles left behind from the melted slushy-snow.

The woman took a chilling step forward. "Sir?" She called out, hoping he would stir. "Are you okay?" She stopped beside him and crouched down, her hands coming within inches of his face.

"_Next."_ The word came out of the air again and her hand stopped, hovering over the man's jugular. Her eyes widened and her fingers jerked back into a ball, forcing a fist.

The young woman looked around, checking her surroundings again. She glanced back to the minivan and saw her three-year-old watching her intently. The child waved through the glass and pushed a handful of cereal into her mouth. Her mother tried again to call 911 when she was hit with a sensation of cold steel. It struck her body mixing with luscious frost. It seeped into her veins, blending into her blood and sneaking trouble-free right into her bones and nestled at the marrow. She stood tall and backed away from the man, who was obviously dead in front of her and suddenly she realized she did know who it was. He was her ninth grade math teacher. He gave her a C+.

"Mr. Martin?" Her voice didn't sound right. It sounded thick with secretions and when the words hit the atmosphere around her, they iced and crystallized in front of her.

"Huh," she breathed and cracked a smile at the awesomeness of it. Her left hand came up in slow motion to push the small glacial forms away. They cracked and snapped at her touch.

There was the sound of static in her ear and she pressed the cell phone back to her lobe. She had already forgotten about making the phone call. Besides, hadn't the line went dead? Or the call simply dropped? She readjusted the phone and listened. Her ears felt full, filling with fluid… occupied.

"Hello?" she mouthed.

The static that filled her eardrum now made her smile and laugh with enjoyment, her short breaths forming clouds of ice as she did so. It delighted her. And the voice gave her sheer pleasure. "_Chosen_."

And then something rocked her World.

WWW

Sam's head was a mess. It was swimming. Scheming. Bleeding.

Rituals. Healers. Witch Doctors. Fountains of Youths. Herbs. Incense. Curses. Blessings.

Denial.

Demons. Angels. Witches. Vampires. Tricksters. Federal Agents.

Bargaining.

Alive. Fighting. Torture. Dying. Torment. Dead. Desperate.

Dean.

Dean was pulling the Impala into a prime parking spot in a gravel lot. Sam glanced up. It was a dive of a restaurant. Small, old, needing new siding. It had one giant window in the front sporting the word "EATS" across it in blue and green flashing neon. Proudly, it also had a gold lettering display underneath saying they'd been established since 1958. And upon walking in, it hadn't been redecorated or updated since then, either. It served greasy burgers and tenderloins for sure, Sam noted as they crossed the small distance to a table. Suddenly a salad sounded pretty good.

Dean hadn't said anything for the past hour or so. He didn't even ask Sam if he wanted to stop for food, he had just made the silent decision on his own, pulling into the first place they came across in forty miles. He didn't check with his brother if this would suit him for lunch, he just opened the door and crawled out of the car. He hadn't been sleeping well lately. Tables had been turned and suddenly he was finding himself the brother plagued with nightmares. He had always felt bad for Sam in that department. Hurt for his sibling in the middle of the night, both physically and mentally. Even anguished for him when they were really bad, when he broke out into baths of sweat. Now he was empathetic. The night terrors racked him awake and asleep.

The cowbell that clunked over their heads as they walked in the cafe seemed to snap him out of his haze a little. The eatery was small and completely empty.

"What time is it?" Dean looked down at his watch. "11:45. You'd think the lunch crowd would be shovin' it in." The older brother chose a table and sunk into the booth.

Sam clamored after him. His eyes quickly casing their surroundings, taking in the gaudy decorations. One wall sported just stuffed fish. They covered the entire thing, mounted on wooden plaques. Some of them would state what kind of fish it was, where it was caught, who caught it and the date. Another wall had pictures of old Iowa barns. They also contained their locations and the date the building was erected. A third wall had an enormous wagon wheel bolted to it. Signatures covered the old wood, graffiti painted on and small poems were etched into the grain. Sam blinked at it and then noticed the carpeting on the floor. It was a short dark cut, old, worn and heavily stained. Underneath it all there was a faded pattern to its madness: cowboy hats. It was truly one of the cheesiest places they'd ever been.

"Dean?"

Sam's older brother was peeling the menu apart. The plastic film was caked with unseen oils and grease keeping the menu sealed when not in use. Sticky fingers. He grimaced. "Yeah?"

"Have we ate here before?" Sam's eyes darted around. It was oddly familiar.

Dean, however, didn't even bother looking up. "Probably. We use to live here."

Sam squinted his eyes back across the table. "We _lived_ here?"

The hazel cracked back up to him, smiling. "Yeah. Well up the road. Dad rented a house outside of Clarinda." When he didn't get an a-ha moment from his eating partner, he went on. "It was the first high school you ever went to."

Sam's shoulders sagged back into the bench behind him, taking his astonished weight. It was slowly starting a light bulb. "Yeah. You taught me how to drive here."

"No. We practiced for your learning permit here. I taught you how to drive in Texas. When you were nine."

Sam laughed at that. Dean started teaching him when he could reach the pedals. His legs had always been too long. "Oh, yeah. Right." When it came to the memories, Dean was always right. "I was fourteen when we were here?" His brother nodded back. "How long did we live here?"

A slight shrug answered him. "Dunno. Six months or less. You didn't finish ninth grade here. That was in Rockford."

"How do you remember that?"

The menu tipped down so the older man could give the younger a _Seriously?_ look. "Cuz I was a Senior and that's where _I_ graduated from." He paused a minute, brought the plastic back up and then added, "Doofus."

Sam still looked around, though. Trying to stir his own memory. "I really think I've eaten here before."

Dean sighed. What was this? Short term memory loss? "Probably did, genius. We just lived up the road a few miles. I'm sure Dad brought us here a couple of times for dinner. You know he didn't cook."

Right. That was a job for the oldest, too. That much Sam could remember.

There was a slow shuffle of feet beside them and a younger man saddled up to the table. He wore a once white apron draped around his front, protecting his precious red and green-checkered shirt. His hair was curly and dark and his eyes were even darker. He held a black ink pen in his left hand and a pocket order pad in his right.

"Get ya?" His voice was higher and didn't seem to match his features.

Sam glanced to Dean.

"Double cheeseburger, extra onions, extra pickle. The seasoned curly fries and a coke."

"Pepsi?"

A nod. "Whatever you got on tap," Dean joked. "Oh, and pie. Apple or cherry. Surprise me."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I'll just have a salad, house dressing. And a water."

The waiter looked over to him. "Small or big?"

There was a few seconds hesitation until Sam realized the question was directed back to him. "What? The salad? Oh, big, I guess."

The kid was staring at him now, his eyes really studying Sam's face. His left hand tapped the pen against the pad a couple of times and he finally pointed to the younger man. "Yeah. I know you, right?"

Sam's eyes flicked up to the waiter. He looked at his dark features and skimmed his nametag. _Omaha_. But weren't they in Iowa? The name was pushing a few cobwebs back, though.

"Sam." The kid's voice raised an excited octave. He raced over to the wagon wheel wall and started searching the beaten up piece of… art.

Dean's face made an upside down frown to his brother and they watched as the waiter's fingers trailed down the old bark until it stopped. He looked over to the table. "Here." He announced proudly. "There's your name. Sam Winchester."

Sam's ears perked up. They always used their real names for school purposes. Records transfers. College applications. It was the one thing they were able to keep real. Because of that John had to be on top of his game more than the boys would ever know. Protect them from anything he hunted that might in return hunt them back. And protect them from bill collectors. It was a lot easier to hide without two growing boys tucked in your pocket.

Sam raised from the bench and walked over to the area Omaha had pointed out. There it was in a faded black sharpie marker – in his own younger handwriting – Sam Winchester. It was listed amongst at least a thousand other names and profanities. He smirked back over to Dean who gave him a small wink. He started walking back to the booth, noting he couldn't remember writing his name. He didn't think he'd been there with Dean. Definitely not Dad. John's punishment for putting his real name on an article so permanent for anyone in the Country to see would have been in itself unforgettable.

The cushions skwooshed as Sam slid his 6'4" frame back into his seat.

"You write something naughty?" Dean was grinning from across the table.

Sam gave him a confused look. "What? No, just my name."

Dean only grinned harder. "That's right. You were only fourteen. Probably didn't even know all the dirty words out there yet, huh, Sammy?"

The confused look had turned into a glare now. He flicked a stray crumb from the table at his brother, pinging him in the arm. "Shuddup."

"Hey, I'm just saying…"

"What, Dean?"

"You were only fourteen."

Sam canted his head. "Yeah?"

"Probably too… virtuous to know those kinds of words." He giggled at himself.

Sam's eyes stayed glued on his brother. "Dude, I can't take you anywhere."

The drinks arrived in large plastic glasses with Coca-Cola scrawled across the side, even though the contents it held was Pepsi. Dean reached for his glass and scowled towards Sam. The old plastic glass felt grimy to the touch. Dean's hand easily lost its grip on it. This was a hole. He watched as Sam reached for his glass and they exchanged the same quiet, disgusted look.

Omaha hovered near the table, still a little over excited to be reunited with the younger Winchester. "We were in the same grade, man. Remember? I hung out with Joey D'Angelo and Rudy Rudker. We called him Moon Pie."

Sam pointed. "Wait. Yeah, actually I think I do. Yeah, I remember Moon Pie. I don't think he lived far from us."

Omaha snorted. "Rudy was your next door neighbor."

"Oh, that little short kid, kind of chubby?" Dean asked, bright eyed.

Sam stared, a bit surprised by his brother, his mouth quirking up. But he did remember Moon Pie. He couldn't have been taller that 5'5" and he was, well, stout. But he was funnier than Hell and he'd get Sam going so hard he'd nearly pee his pants. Sam blushed a little at forgetting him. "I remember him, just not real good."

"S'okay," Omaha continued, "you guys didn't live here for very long."

They never lived anywhere for very long, but that was another story.

"What ever happened to Moon Pie?" Dean egged on.

"Order!"

Omaha turned to the counter. He held one finger up to the brothers and dashed over to catch their food. He ran right back to them. Must have been pretty desperate for that tip.

"Oh, yeah." Dean lit up. He grabbed the burger and wrapped his mouth around it. One huge bite. It hit every taste bud just like it was suppose to. Sweet, sour, spicy, hot and thick. The brown runny grease leaked down his finger as his hold adjusted on the bun. But he didn't mind. Now he understood why everything was so sticky.

"Moon Pie fucking died, man."

Sam blinked. Of course he did. The one person Sam kind of remembered wouldn't have lived and gone to college, had a successful job, gotten married and had kids. No, that person would be dead. He didn't even want to ask.

"How'd he bite it?" Dean muffled, tearing his teeth into more of the burger.

Omaha gestured to the bench near the older brother and Dean obliged, scooting down, moving his food and drink with him. The waiter squeezed his skinny rear-end next to him and pulled out a Butterfinger. "Well, he came back to visit his family over Christmas." He unwrapped the candy bar and took a big bite. Sam's eyes tennis balled from one eater to the next. "He'd been living up in Minneapolis. Became some kind of Administrator for a school up there. Anyway, he and his new wife came home for the Holiday…"

Sam's heart sank. God, it was worse than he'd thought. He had achieved everything he was suppose to in life and still died.

"They went on a walk through the old neighborhood, showing his wife around and he just… fucking keeled over." Omaha's arm rose up and then steered down to the table hitting it with a thud. "Just like that. Guess he had a heart attack."

Well that got both of the listener's attentions.

"He was my age." Sam stammered.

Omaha nodded back. "Yeah."

"Don't you think… that's a little weird?" Sam continued, eyeing Dean as he gave his full attention now to his fries.

The young waiter was already nodding, his eyes wide almost seeming to get darker as he spoke. "Oh, yeah," he went on. "They said it was because he was too fat. But that's not the whole story. He died right on the sidewalk in front of the fucking town haunt."

Dean swallowed hard. "You mean the murder house?"

Sam was blown away. Jesus, what didn't Dean remember?

Omaha was nodding back at the older man. "Historically keeping up appearances, man." Then the waiter shifted his dark eyes between the two brothers. "And Moon Pie wasn't the only one."

Sam's brows furred. "There's been others?"

"Oh, yeah. A month before Tina O'Brien. Taking a walk, fell on the sidewalk." He leaned closer as though there were people listening in. "Scraped her knee and snapped her back. Who does that? Last week Alex Martin – BAM! Down and out, stuck like a pig. Said it was a stroke." Omaha pushed across to Sam. "Remember? He taught math."

Sam thought about it. "Looked like Chris Farley?"

Omaha huffed. "Well, older… and rougher. Like he'd been livin' in a fucking van down by the river."

Dean laughed heartily, hamburger and cheese visible for everyone to see.

"And, uh, a three-year-old little girl. She choked to death when her Mom stalled in front of the house. It happened the same day Mr. Martin died. The Mom, she tried to save them both, but…" Omaha's voice trailed off, his eyes ventured out to the emptiness of the café.

Both hunters exchanged a look with one another. A three-year-old. God, they hated when their job involved children. They felt a greater need to save, time pressing harder on their shoulders.

"The little girl…" Sam gestured gently, his hand rolling for Omaha to continue.

Omaha nodded his head. "The doors were locked. I guess the Mom had left her keys still in the car when she went out to help Mr. Martin." The waiter took another bite of his candy bar. "Emily Pruitt. Remember her?"

Sam did remember her. Emily. He had always like her… when she was fourteen. She was a cute little blonde with a big smile. Sam was so tall and lanky even back then and Emily was always so kind to him. Interested when others weren't. She had a great laugh that shook her shoulders when she got out of control. Which, Sam recalled, was a lot of the time. She was fun loving and the younger man had wanted to ask her out, take her to a movie. But Dean was four years older than he and had never taken a girl out on a date. Not that he didn't chase any or hadn't been with any. But to date? To have a girlfriend? It was an unspoken rule that both brothers understood none too well. No one, other than John's self-appointed individuals, were to breach the Winchester style of living.

Besides, as the younger recalled, he kind of had a thing going with Emily's best friend.

"It was Emily's daughter," Sam finally croaked out.

Dark eyes slid over to him. "Emily's daughter. Emily's math teacher. Our math teacher. Tina graduated with us. Remember, she had a real pizza face." Omaha scrunched his own face up and gave the brothers an exaggerated shudder. "Then… Moon Pie. I think its trying to take out our whole graduating class."

Dean sucked down some soda. "What is?"

Omaha shrugged. "The fucking house, maybe. Kind of like a _Monster House_. Or something inside it."

The ring of a cheap metal order bell sounded and Omaha glanced up. "Your fucking pie. I'll be back in a minute." He craned his neck at Dean. "Want cream?"

The older hunter smiled in confirmation and his side of the booth was relieved of the bony ass for the moment. Dean pushed his empty plate away, bumping it against Sam's barely touched salad. He folded his hands in front of him. "Sam, don't tell me you don't remember the old murder house?" Dean baited his brother, but Sam wasn't biting. Dean sighed. "It was a long time ago – 1912, I think? Somebody walks right into the house while everyone was sleeping and axes the entire family to death. Kills Mom and Dad, their four kids and two other little girls who were spending the night. Whoever it is leaves and was never caught. After that, reports start flying saying the house is haunted. Nothing real Evil, though, just regular crap. Spooky sounds, voices. After about thirty years, though, a young kid goes missing. Last name Johnson, Johnston, maybe. They find him in the house. Bludgeoned. About thirty more years another kid goes missing. Brian? Brady…? Find him out behind the house. Then when we were here…" Dean watched Sam closely, "Remember?"

Sam had been looking down at his salad, so not in the mood anymore for anything in his stomach now. Something evoked in him, though. The house had been white. The windows were largely proportioned and bizarre. The porch had an awning over it and the floorboard creaked under his feet. The doorknob wasn't smooth in his grasp when he had turned it ten years ago.

His eyes looked more green than blue as they fastened on Dean's hazel flicker of recognition between them.

"Amanda Brewer." Sam muted.

Dean let out a sigh that he hadn't even realized he'd been holding in. Things with Sam hadn't been so smooth lately. Sam had done a lot of things that had surprised the older brother recently. More or less, the things had been a little, well, Supernatural. Sometimes even a little cold. But Sam forgetting parts of his life, temporary amnesia of events was enough to get Dean's attention. It forced himself to dredge up questions – or rather a certain question of what something not too long ago put in the back of his mind, never to forget.

_Just how sure are you that what you brought back is 100 pure Sam? _

"Sam…"

"Cherry okay?"

The higher than expected voice stopped Dean and he looked up to Omaha and smiled, taking the small white plate from his hands. Dean held it over to Sam, quietly offering him first bite of the dessert and, not surprisingly, was turned down. Dean swirled the whipped topping on his fork, spreading the fluffy white goodness all over the crust. The waiter sat back down, scootching at Dean with his hip. The hunter moved a baby step down, this time throwing an imaginary dart at him.

The young dark haired kid started in again. "You know what I remember about you guys being here, though? The legend of your Dad. Or rumor. I don't know, me and Moon Pie started it."

Sam looked over to the waiter. Dean had just taken a bite of the pastry and coughed out a choking sound. Omaha pushed the Pepsi closer to him. "Dude, I know. We use real cherries, not the shit from a can. Take smaller bites." He watched as Dean inhaled his beverage. "That night your Dad went barreling into that house with all those guns strapped to him like he was fuckin' Rambo or somethin'! He shot up the place and then came out and was all like 'this house is clean'. Moon Pie and I were hiding out next door and he made you stay out in the grass, like you were keeping watch for…" Omaha's eyes narrowed. "What were you watching out for?"

Dean gulped. "The, uh, cops."

That seemed right. "Yeah, well whatever your Dad thought he could do worked. Until now. Maybe you should call him up and see if he can come back all blazin' saddles again."

Sam's eyes were boring holes in Dean from across the table. Dean smoothed the topping around his pie now, playing with it. Distracting himself from the younger brother's rigidity. "Yeah, we'll have to call him," the older man answered with a degree of difficulty back to the hired help.

"Where was I?" Sam's voice caught him and his eyes automatically looked up.

No use in lying. It would just be covered by another and there wasn't enough time left in his sentence to smother it all with black. "Dad sent you to Pastor Jim's for the weekend. We got rid of it while you were gone."

"Rid of what?" Omaha perked up.

Sam ignored him. "Why?"

Dean shook his head, one shoulder raised and fell. "Thought you'd be…"

"Safe?" Sam's voice was sharp, angry.

Dean tilted his head. "I don't know, Sam. He didn't say a whole lot to me. He just wanted you away and he said we could take care of it together. And we did."

"We?" Sam's voice was threatening.

"What the fuck was it?" Omaha interrupted.

And when Sam didn't respond, keeping his eyes pasted on his brother, Dean answered them both. "Some kind of a spirit."

"One of the axes?" The inexperienced kid was soaking in the conversation, confirming years of what he had suspected had happened when the Winchesters had rode into town.

"I'm not really sure, but I don't think so. It's… complicated." Dean didn't want to explain anymore now. Not in front of Columbo Junior. "You know, I think I'd like a couple more pieces of pie. To go. Can you get that for me?"

The curly dark hair fluttered and he paused a few beats. His face smirked into a strange smile, not wanting to tear himself away from ghost talks but he slowly nodded. "Yeah, I can get it. I'll get you some fucking pie to take with you." He slid his skinny form out and sulked over to the window by the kitchen.

Dean's eyes trekked the waiter until he pushed himself through the double pizza-ranch doors to the back. The cherry pie was shoved aside and the older brother leaned over the small table, his voice dropping low for the only other occupant to hear. "Dad had to get rid of you, Sam. He was trying to protect you."

"From what?" The younger brother's tone was solid and non-wavering.

Dean blinked. "Honestly, I'm not quite sure."

"Dean…"

"But it was something. Obviously it was something in the house… and it's not a _Monster_ _House_, by the way. Freaking geek. But whatever it was, some kind of spirit, killed your girlfriend at the time."

Funny, something else in a house had once killed one of Sam's girlfriends, too. "Amanda was never my girlfriend," he blurted out.

"Well, she was a girl and your friend and she called all the goddamn time and you went out with her every weekend." Dean pointed to the wagon wheel. "You signed your name up there on that stupid thing when you were here with her." He waited while images seemed to flash through Sam's mind and then flinched when he saw the younger man's eyes deflect with the memory. Dean reached his hand out and patted Sam's wrist until his brother looked over to him. "Dad was afraid for you."

For him or of him, Sam wondered to himself.

And now Dean was officially, too. He had over two months before he'd be running from the Hell Hounds. Just over two months before this conversation wouldn't even be a memory for him. Two months and his baby brother wouldn't have him to fill in the pieces for him.

"But Dad got it."

Dean drew his hand back. "Yeah." He watched as Omaha closed the Styrofoam lid of his to-go container. "But remember back in Lawrence? Back in our old house? Missouri, she said some places are just magnets for paranormal activity. Well, I think when eight people get axed to death in the middle of the night that constitutes as real Evil. Don't you? Doesn't matter if it was human or something else. Still Evil. Maybe the house is just a calling card for shit to come and…"

"Cherry _and_ apple, just in case." Omaha's voice was more subdued, as if his Ritalin had finally kicked in. He sat back down on the edge of the bench near Dean, but kept his legs stretched out into the eatery, not invading. "The funeral was today for the little girl," he sullenly unraveled. "Practically the whole town went."

That explained the emptiness of the joint.

"You didn't go?" Dean questioned curiously.

The waiter shook his head. "Been to enough lately. I didn't feel much like going to one where the casket would be…" his arms spread apart to a small child size.

Dean nodded. "You don't happen to have Emily's address do you?"

He felt Sam's sudden turn of his neck. The tension heaved across the table. The worry in his unspoken words. _She just lost her child…_

Omaha flicked his pen out and wrote the address and directions out on his order pad, ripped it off and handed it over to Dean. He looked back over to Sam with softer eyes. "Sam Winchester. Good to have seen you again." He gave a small smile. "You never said, what're you doin' now?"

Sam pelted him a look. "Been on a really long road trip with my brother."

Omaha nodded, throwing his Butterfinger wrapper on the table with Dean's dirty dishes. "Gonna go hunt the bitch down? _Ghostbuster_ style?"

Sam almost laughed back at him. "I don't know what we're going to do yet."

There was a few seconds of silence between the three before Omaha breathed, "Fuckin' old haunt."

The overly large, overly oily cook from the back glowered at him from behind the small opening separating the kitchen from the dining area. Dean caught the shot and watched as Omaha waved back, smiling.

"Dude, you'd better watch it. He'll probably tell the owner you're throwing the f-bomb around. Don't want to go losing your job." Dean warned.

Omaha let out a "Ha", throwing the pie at the older Winchester and gave him a crooked smile. "Man, _I_ own this shit hole."

TBC

**A/N:** As with my other stories, I will post a chapter every two to three days and I have the story already written so I just have to edit each one prior to posting. I believe I have seven chapters this time, unlike more normal six. If you care to send a note, that would be great! Thanks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **See Part One

**A/N: **Hey, thanks for reviewing, guys! This chapter is a bit longer but we cover some needed ground. Let's see if we can get into that house…

**Part Two**

"This is a bad idea, Dean."

Sam was really unbelievably uncomfortable with going to the house of Emily Pruitt. Actually, now it was Emily Walters, but it was still the same Emily and Sam still didn't want to go.

"Her kid just died."

Dean didn't seem to be listening to him, though. He followed the directions and pulled right onto Timberline Road. The street was flanked on both sides with small, ranch style houses. Number 421's driveway was full of cars, the yard littered with them as well. It was difficult finding anywhere to park so Dean crept to the end of the street before settling on a space. He threw the gearshift into park and turned the Impala off, throwing the bouquet of flowers he had insisted they stop and buy before heading over.

"Dean…"

The door pulled open and Dean was already walking around the other side, adjusting the buttons on his jacket, waving his hand through his spiky dark blonde hair. He opened the door to Sam's side and offered him his arm.

Sam glared up at him and swung out. "Jerk."

They started walking up the road to the green house with the orange door. It was charming and quaint. Plenty of room for a family of three. Sam's mouth twitched to the left. He looked down at the brightly colored hues of flowers, having absolutely no idea what kind they were. Definitely not roses or lilies. Dean had picked them out, though. Probably second to cheapest in the store.

The stone path from the sidewalk leading up the house was still edged with snow and it greeted them before he knew it. "Dean, please," one last shot to get out of it. Dean started walking forward, casting a look over his shoulder at the younger man as he went. Sam threw a small tantrum-huff in his direction and then followed behind, his bangs wispily hiding his eyes.

The door opened quietly and an older man answered, possibly a Grandfather, solemnly greeting guests as they arrived. Dean did the talking. They were passing through, had grown up in the area and had heard of the unfortunate death of the little one. Sam had went to high school with Emily and they just wanted to stop and give their condolences. One hundred percent the truth for once. With a hint in the air of a hidden agenda. Grandpa pointed them in the direction of the back of the house.

Emily was in a small-enclosed porch off the kitchen. As the brothers approached, a light-haired woman around sixty exited the door, shutting it softly behind her. She looked up to the men with wet eyes.

Dean cleared his throat. "Emily in there?"

The older woman made an odd, pained-filled face. "She is. I think she should be alone, though."

Dean nodded and Sam swallowed. They thanked the lady and waited as she passed by them, finding herself immersed in hugs from others, pulled away deeper into the kitchen. Dean turned his attention back to the unmanned door. He lifted his eyebrows, inverted V's, back to Sam and swiveled the brass door handle.

Emily Walters was sitting on a small sofa, surrounded with flowers and cards. She was in the middle of opening one up when the boys walked in. Dirty blonde hair in need of highlights was pushed out of her face, her brown eyes glimpsing up at the strangers. She didn't speak, not a word, but her eyes questioned them the second their boots hit the carpet.

"Emily," Dean started as Sam strolled in behind him and closed the door tightly, "hey, we're, uh, we were passing through and heard about your daughter. We use to live around here." Dean pointed to his chest. "I'm Dean and this is my brother Sam. Winchester."

Emily dropped the card she was opening and her hands cupped her cheeks. "Oh, my God," she said amazed and then she almost shrilled it, "Oh, my God!" She jumped to her feet, pranced in place and raced past Dean, throwing her arms around a stunned Sam. She squeezed his middle hard and then backed away, looking up to him with a big, hideous smile plastered on her dry cheeks. "How are you?"

Sam's eyes looked over to Dean. Mistake. This was a big, huge mistake. What did they just step into now? This was no grieving mother. This was no woman going through the five stages of loss. This was a freaking high school reunion straight out of Stepford. Dean held his stare, not sure what to think of the happenings, either. He shook his head in bewilderment towards the younger.

"I'm okay," Sam stumbled out. "I'm so sorry… for your… loss."

The young mother broke her hold and stepped back. "What are you up to? I was just thinking about you the other day. Isn't that freaky?"

"Freakin' freaky," Dean replied from behind her.

Sam fumbled with his hand for the back of a chair and turned it so he could sit down. He motioned for Emily to sit on the sofa, making an attempt to keep her in grief-stricken- conversation mode. She, however, preferred to stand. "I'm, uh, just passing through with my brother Dean…"

She turned bright eyes towards the older hunter and then she sneered. "I remember you. You were always so… nerdy."

_Nerdy? _Dean started to object when Sam stopped him.

"We stopped for lunch up at Omaha's place and he told us about your little girl."

Emily's eyes dropped then, but it was too little too late. Too practiced. Method acting 101. Sam and Dean had been way more convincing at their lies, even their worst. "I got out of my car to help Mr. Martin and the car locked behind me. I couldn't get to her. She choked to death on Cheerios." Exactly what Omaha had told them. She had her story down pretty good now.

Dean's eyes shifted around the room. No pictures of the little girl. None of her favorite toys in the room with Emily. No traces of her at all. "She died in front of the old murder house?" he inquired, looking back to the woman.

She nodded, but kept her eyes on Sam. "Yeah." And then her mind traveled somewhere else. "Remember Amanda Brewer?"

Sam nodded, watching as Emily walked in front of him, staring him down. "Yeah, Omaha and I…"

"Remember the talent show? She made you sing with her." Emily let out a horrendous laugh. "Mandy, she could sing, but you were… really bad."

Sam's mouth yanked up again, unfamiliar memories swarmed his mind of a small stage and Jamaican music.

"What was the name of that song you sang?" Her voice filled the porch crisply. "Remember?"

Both brothers' eyes were studying the mother. She closed her own baby browns and waited as she played it back to herself. Before she could say anything, Dean spoke up. "Yeah, it was, uh… Christo-something."

Her eyes popped open. No liquid black. No hissing. No reaction at all. "Never heard of that song. No, it was _Iko Iko_. What a fucked up song." She turned back to the younger brother. "Remember that night on the porch of the haunted house? The night you and Amanda went in."

Sam's eyes widened. He looked to the young mother watching for signs of normalcy. Signs of humanity. But she looked at him with an odd glimmer surfacing on her orbs. Through the brown there seemed to be a flash of silver then green mixed back to the brunet of her iris. She smiled at him, but her eyes stayed unusually cold. Her grin seemed to jump out towards the younger hunter, almost trying to take a bite. Or a lick. Wanting to taste him.

Sam shook his head. "No, not really. I remember… we were at a party."

"My party. We left and went to the old haunt. Amanda died in that house." She took a calm breath in, her chest filling. "Everyone who goes in there dies. Mr. Martin. My little girl, too."

Sam felt Dean's eyes watching the two intensely. His periphery caught the older brother lean in, almost physically coming between the two, breaking the connection Emily was trying to grasp. "What do you mean? Too? Your little girl didn't die _in_ the house."

Numerous blinks. Dry and calculating. They weren't sure if they had caught her in a lie or in a truth. "Hailey." She turned from the brothers, scowling at Dean. "Her name was Hailey. And she died in the car. In front of the house. She choked on some Cheerios."

Sam was staring at her appalled now, his heart thumped rapidly in his chest gaining speed by the second. He started to speak and felt a quiver on his lips as the air was released, blowing cold smoke in the space between the three.

"Dean," was all he managed to squeak out as the name formed ice crystals from his mouth.

They had come in unarmed. No guns, no knives, no holy water. It was a luncheon following a burial of a three-year-old for God's sake. Dean lunged in between Emily and his brother. His hands pressed out from his body, ready to fight dirty if it came down to it when the door clicked open.

"Honey, Father Dave is here."

It had to be an awkward sight. Emily's husband walking in on two strange men apparently defending themselves from his one hundred-twenty-pound heartbroken wife. The brothers' heads whipped to the left, grateful for the intrusion. The husband narrowed his eyes, ache and confusion erupting throughout his features. "Honey?"

But Emily was prepared. Ready. "Great. I've been waiting for him." She grabbed a handful of Kleenex and walked by the boys, reaching for her husband's arm, grabbing it calmly, keeping a distance between the two of them. "This is Sam Winchester. I went to high school with him." She gestured to the man on her arm. "This is… Troy. My husband."

Troy Walters nodded to the Winchesters wearing a convincingly sad smile.

"They can let themselves out." Emily called over her shoulder. Not so much for her husband as it was for her uninvited guests.

Dean jostled to a standing position. He helped Sam up, guiding him with a strong hand on his shoulder. The room had defrosted as quickly as it has cooled and Dean was almost propelling his kid brother out into the kitchen. He didn't waste anytime looking into the eyes of mourners, didn't check to see where Emily had went. He just wanted to get his brother the Hell out of there right now.

They stepped back onto the snowy stone pathway and finally felt like they were able to breathe. Dean's hand still gripped his brother and he squeezed, turning him around to face him. Sam's breaths were coming quick, his heart still galloping in his ears. He felt like he'd just ran a marathon.

"You okay?" the older hunter rasped out, his hand dropping from Sam and resting on his own noodle-like thighs, taking in deep breaths.

Sam gave a half nod. "I don't think…" Sam's eyes wandered back to the house. "that's Emily anymore."

"Dude, I thought she as going to go all _Carrie_ on you," Dean admitted with a touch of fear and sarcasm underlying his words.

There was a flick of a lighter next to them and they turned to see the older lady from earlier lighting a cigarette. She moved the flame to the end of the stick and puffed in, allowing the first hit to take her over. She sucked in and turned to blow smoke in the boys' direction. "See Emily?" she asked stone-faced.

The brothers nodded in synch. Yeah, they'd seen her. More of her than they had planned.

The woman took another drag. Her hollow eyes skated over to the hunters. Sorrow, pain, utter dismay leering back to them. "It's just shock, isn't it? She's shutting down?"

Sam's throat worked against the cold of the day, against his own emotions, against his own vulnerability. "Yeah, sure it is." A lie and it didn't give the woman any comfort.

"I think she's just in some sort of hysteria. My granddaughter was so full of life. So energetic and Emily was so good to her." Her eyes pierced the brothers now. "She loved her." She shook her head and tugged on the cigarette with her wrinkled mouth. "She'll come out of it. She'll wake up. See what she lost and then, then she'll come back to us." She flicked her leftover tobacco into the snow and pulled her arms around herself, her legs moving past the boys now. "Don't tell anyone you saw me out here. I quit smoking over twenty-five-years ago when I was pregnant with Emily. But the Lorazepam's not working anymore and nothing else seems to calm me down."

The Impala was a homecoming welcome to both hunters. She took their body weights and cuddled each of them in her leather embrace. Dean's head fell back onto the car rest behind him and he blinked a few times at the felt covered roof above. He could feel Sam's jittery body starting to relax across the seat and the older brother wanted to say something to help him. Say something to make the confusion go away. Make it all better. He had always been good at that when they were kids.

Adulthood and monsters had taken some of that ease away, though.

"We'll find a room in town," Dean started.

"No." Sam's head shook. "We won't need one. We'll just break in and stay the night at the murder house."

Dean's head whisked his way. "Are you crazy? If we go in, we go in the day."

Sam pointed down the street. "Her daughter died during the day, Dean. The math teacher died during the day. It doesn't matter if it's night or not."

"Night's always worse, Sam, you know that." He waited a moment. "Maybe we should just stay here. Stake out Emily."

"Why? She's not possessed…"

"Not by a demon. She didn't react to Christo." Dean sighed. "Maybe she's possessed by a spirit. A nasty one."

Sam shook his head. "I don't know. I think whatever was in that house got to her, though. Messed her up. She remembers a lot from her past to be taken over by a spirit."

"They can be real tricky."

Sam slated his eyes over to his brother. "We're staying in that house tonight, Dean."

And as Dean turned the ignition over, he got a cold feeling in his stomach. It ached, churning his lunch into bile. Swallowing hard to keep it down. He didn't want to go back to that house. Didn't want to take Sam there especially after what his Dad had told him.

"_I sent Sam to Pastor Jim's," John had explained all those years ago. "He can't come with us on this one. It's already seen him and it knows who he is. He was lucky to get out this time. It won't let him out again."_

Dean swallowed down the extra saliva in his mouth and glanced over to the chosen Winchester. Chosen by darkness. Chosen by light. Chosen to live. Chosen to be alone. But not short on free will. He couldn't argue with his brother now. He had made the choice and Dean would follow. Go into the house, take out what was smoldering inside. It would be up to Dean to get his brother back to the safety of the car. The safety next to him. The safety… Dean looked down. What a joke.

"Still should get a room, though," Dean started again. "Get ready for this. Load up."

Sam nodded in agreement. "Okay." The younger man sniffed a little, clearing his running nose caused from the weather they'd been attacked with as of lately. His coat felt heavy on his body, pulling instead of protecting. But it wasn't the only thing in the car that had that job. Sam's eyes turned darker as he watched Dean pull off Timberline Road. Just over two months and all they had in their laps was a goddamn haunted house. Couldn't find anything else useful. Couldn't find anything else on this green and snowy Earth that could save his brother. Save him.

_It's my turn to save your ass._

Dean had never failed at his promises to Sam. Never. He did everything and anything to keep his word to his brother. And now, with everything hanging in the balance, it was Sam with his only promise he'd ever made to him that was going to lose? Welch on his own personal deal with his brother? Not be able to fight Good against Evil? He looked out the window. Maybe he needed to let go. Let go of some of his light. Accept some of his dark. Fight Evil against Evil. Save Dean. With the unnatural.

His eyes flicked up as they drove down the narrow streets of the small town. The crest of the haunt stood amongst the other houses, trimming the background. The white peaks on the second story towering over the smaller houses shelved around it. Sam recognized it right away. Three narrow and oblong windows shining down on the car, brushing years back in Sam's mind. The floorboard creaked under his weight. The front doorknob wasn't smooth as he swiveled it in his palm. The house was pitch black and the rancid odor that hit is nose when he stepped in. Amanda's fingers wound tightly around his bicep, fingernails digging in his skin that left bruises for a week afterwards. Her voice became frantic. She was yelling. At _him_. "Get out!" She rushed from his grasp.

Then it hit them.

WWW

It hadn't been so much a need as a want. Dean did not want to go into that house with his baby brother. But the need to do their job, fulfill their duty, was evident. Save lives. Get rid of the bad guy. But Dean really, really didn't want to do this one.

Life happens. In the past ten years, the brothers had grown, becoming men. Becoming hunters. Sons and soldiers of John Winchester, each in their own right. Being more than they could be. Each destined to seek their own futures. And beyond. That was one thing that the older brother had to be sure of, had to make a certainty, though. That Sam would be here, alive and well, kicking and screaming when Dean's deal was up. No way was he going to leave this Earth without what he had sacrificed for not remaining in the here and now. Even if he was unsure of what Sam was to do – what he was to become – without Dean present to guide him. Keep him safe and protected.

It was a good thing they weren't sleeping this night. The motel only had a couple of rooms left and each only had one Queen sized bed. Currently, it was being used as a table with all their ammo and weapons sprawled out.

Dean looked down as he slid his Bowie knife over the black stone, sharpening her stealth again. She was one of his many treasures he held in his hands, a magnificent crafted beauty. His eyes caught a glint shining back to him and saw his brother's reflection in the silver. A brief second and Dean thought he saw a flicker in the blade – veiled and frigid – pass across his brother's pupils. Keeping Sam safe wasn't going to be the trick for much longer, even if they could break his own deal. Keeping Sam from harming might be high on the list of priorities.

He kept to the job at hand mentally and physically, pulling out a bag of herbs from the duffel and raised his eyes to his brother, relieved to see the ocean swimming back. The sigh he released went under the radar and undetected.

Sam sat on the furthest bed, methodically loading the sawed-off with salt rounds. He was different towards his brother since the trickster. Not wanting to catch his gaze unless he needed to know something. Not wanting to listen when Dean thought something might be good for him. He was thinking for himself. Not for them, but for Sam. Preparing, the older brother had told himself. Readying himself for a life alone.

"There was only one Catholic church," Sam spoke up, pointing to the flasks on the dresser. "I filled up. There's reserve in the duffel."

Then again, he still watched out for Dean sometimes, too. Or maybe just watched him. The older hunter noticed how his kid brother would bop his head to the music pouring out of the Impala. How his eyes followed him when he didn't think Dean was noticing. Waiting for him to go to sleep before Sam would finally surrender and pass out. Regardless of how much prepping he was doing, Sam was still scared. Didn't want to watch his brother die in his arms. Again. All those Tuesdays coming together for one big final showdown. Sam wouldn't talk to Dean about it. Dean didn't pry. Why dredge up memories when they weren't even real? Well, at least they hadn't been real for one brother.

Sam clicked the rifle back and forth, the clacking would normally send chills down the spines of people on the streets, but for the Winchesters it was comforting in the silent room. Like hearing your favorite song on the radio or smelling your mother's perfume. Dean glanced up, watching his brother's fostered ease. "Ready?"

Sam glimpsed up from across the beds. Dean thought he saw a twitch in his cheek, a second of reluctance, but then a quick nod answered back. Sam stood and everything that had been previously laid out was carefully swooped up and placed back in the duffel or tucked away on their person. Cover themselves with as much as they could and keep the rest nestled in the safety of the trunk. One of them could always run back if they needed something they couldn't carry in.

"Could always still go in the morning," Dean nudged him. The red crystal from the clock radio blared 10:30 p.m. Dean really didn't want to hunt this thing – whatever it was – in the night. Not with Sam. At least in the light of day, he'd be able to see better what might be attacking him. Them.

Sam simply shook his head. Didn't speak. Carried his back and neck tightly, taut. His broad shoulders passed by the other hunter and he grabbed up the duffel easily in one hand. It was a brooding that Dean had seen many times before when they were growing up, mostly after arguments with their father, though. Moments of his life spent in fits of rage, tempers flaring. Unleashed turbulence directed towards his father and brother. Now they were lessons in training, attempts in adopting characteristics of a lone hunter. Sam was holding it in, changing his m.o. Pushing his fits down into his gut, burying his rage in his heart. Deal with his own demons silently, like his brother. But that's where Sam muddled things up. He was good at holding grudges. It was part of his core. Dean was more vocal with his anger. Let it go and move on. Forgive easily. Especially where Sam was involved.

Forgiveness was something Sam had a hard time doing. And accepting.

They didn't have far to travel, the motel was in close proximity to the murder house as was everything in the small town. The Impala got them there quickly and noisily. The house stood serene against the snow. It towered over the other homes and even without the known history it appeared to be lethal within itself.

Dean had been there once before, too. Standing outside on the porch as his Dad had entered confident and strong, all vigilante-style through the front doors, taking apart whatever had crossed his family. Dean hadn't seen what it was, but he heard it. John had entered in the night and worked for several hours while his older son stood as lookout. There had been definite sounds of battle and struggle, but John had emerged sweaty and bruised. But not bloody. Not broken. His small personal war was won, though the victor was shaky. He was quiet, didn't divulge anything to the young Winchester waiting for him. Maybe he didn't want to burden him at the time.

He'd save that for later.

But Dean also saw what he carried out of that house as he left that he hadn't had going in. Something he didn't see accompany his father often. Fear.

Dean parked the car towards the back alley and climbed out. Sam followed behind him, the door slamming as he turned. Innately, they met under the sanctuary of the trunk. Both their shoulders falling forward, arms brushing upon arms as they reached down and brought weapons to one another.

"Sam," Dean flashed a quick look in his brothers direction, "take extra batteries for your light."

"Got it."

"And, uh, don't go wandering too far away from me in there."

Sam stopped and stared. "It'll go a lot faster if we split up…"

"Yeah. I know that, but…" Dean's voice stopped without Sam even interrupting him.

The younger brother smirked back to him. "I'll be okay," he reassured the older.

There was a nod in response and then Dean placed an unsettled hand on Sam's arm. "Just stay by me, okay?"

Sam gave no response, just yanked away. Dean reached up and pulled the trunk of the Impala down in a hard thud. He watched as Sam stalked through the snow. It was harder every day for Dean to keep his game face on, keeping up with the game in general. One hunt after another. They had been tough. Hard on his body, hard on his mind. There was a time when they hunted, when they fought, they not only gave a part of themselves but they took something back in return. Gained knowledge. Learned lessons. Became closer. Sam wasn't the only Winchester he was worried about that night.

_I just wish you would drop the show and be my brother again. Cause… just cause._

Now each hunt was full or horror. Both in what they preyed upon and what was becoming of the other. Losing more than gaining. And it wasn't as if neither didn't care, both did whole-heartedly. But they were each desperate. Desperation blinds a person. Lovers. Friends. Brothers. Leaves them in the black. And right now, going into a dark house at night, a little light would be beneficial to both hunters.

Sam had stopped midway up the sidewalk to the house and turned back to his older brother, still standing behind the Chevy. His hands flapped down to his sides, glock held in his right, brushing his thigh harshly. "Are you comin'?"

Dean huffed back in a sarcastic tone, even though it was all breaths. He pushed forward, hefting his rifle over his shoulder and met up with the gangly form waiting impatiently for him.

Sam stared down at him as Dean approached and started past him. "Dean."

The older man's head fell down, chin hanging against his chest for a moment. He couldn't deny him, never was able to before, couldn't change the rules of the game now. He turned around.

"I won't leave you."

Dean felt a quick flush of heat on his cheeks and his eyes shut for a millisecond longer than he intended. He knew Sam was referring to inside the house, but the words sunk in deep exposing wounds that made him ache. Sam couldn't make things easy for his older brother. Dean always had to work for it. His eyes opened and he nodded once, at least his response could be simple and easy.

They walked the rest of the way in silence up the steps onto the porch. Dean felt a shudder run down his younger brother and he stopped to look at him. Sam halted. The floor boards creaked under his weight as he reached them, the sound filled the cold night air around them. Sam's eyes flew to the door knob. It was dirty and old, not at all like it had been when it was in its glory. Originally, it had been a royal black iron warmly greeting guests. Now it was jagged, corroded with black crumbs breeding off it. His eyes looked over to his brother and then back to the knob. Dean followed, instinctively to Sam. He held out his hand quietly and cautioning, keeping Sam at bay as the older hunter reached for the handle and turned. Both boys expected to find the door locked and were surprised to find the knob easily slid around and the door slowly separated from its casing. Dean pushed it open and it groaned back in response, the thick of the night making its home inside. He shone his flashlight in quickly and looked back to Sam. The younger man took a couple of shuffled steps forward and stopped beside the leader. Dean held up a fist and flicked his fingers up.

One. Two. Three.

Dean's foot came up and forcefully kicked open the door. It swung roughly over the wood grain of the floors chafing it as it scraped against it. A small dust cloud kicked up from the action, skittering debris and clouding their vision as they stepped into the darkness.

The light from the moon streamed in through the front door, guiding the Winchesters inside. Their shadows bounced off the dim beams, billowing onto surrounding walls. They looked around noting the bareness of the living room they had entered into. A staircase off to the side, but no furniture. No window dressings. Muted light cast in through the windows as they proceeded from the outside street lamps.

Sam continued behind his brother, the musty smell of mold burning his nares. He felt pressure from fingernails pressing on his skin through his coat and he swayed. The picture behind his own lids shining brighter in his mind's eyes. He had walked in with Amanda. No, it was after her. She hadn't wanted to go in and stormed away angry. He had thought she had left him there. Then Emily was next to him on the front porch. Close. And then closer. His balance teetered back in the living room and Sam really was feeling fingernails on his arm. His eyes opened and met Dean's. The older man put two fingers up to his forehead and motioned straight ahead, tugging on Sam to follow him. A loose nod of the head and they were walking into the next room.

It could have been a dining room at one time. It was empty and easy to check for paranormal activity. The kitchen was off of that area and was half assembled. Old dark cabinets, some ripped off the walls, scattered along the ancient linoleum. The floor itself was broken up and twisted within itself making it difficult to cross. A few mice ran into their hiding grounds from the large boots closing in on them. There were off–centered windows across from them and Sam felt his chest tighten. They seemed darker to him now, but definitely familiar. Not just a hunch or a feeling but a fast, fleeting memory of being there and seeing something near those windows. That something had seen him, too. It had been intrigued.

Dean tugged again, stopping to look at his brother this time and Sam snatched his arm from his hold. "Dude, I can walk through a haunted house without someone holding my hand." He said in a calloused whisper.

_Hold my hand? _Sam swallowed. Those words coming back to literally haunt him now.

He looked over to the older, catching his profile darkly illuminated as he left the kitchen and headed into black. He was leading Sam down a small hallway. Off the corridor were a few doors. The first one was once a possible wash room, the other a closet. A third door Dean pulled back revealed stairs that plummeted down. He swallowed. So dark down there. Not sure what condition the stairs were even in. He shook his head tersely to Sam, closing the door and gesturing with his head to continue on the first floor path. It ended with a small bedroom. It was the only room that had any furniture in it so far. A twin sized bed, metal frame with a lumpy, bare mattress covered in stains. Dean swished from left to right. His EMF tucked in his belt loop, his sawed off snug in his hands.

Nothing. Just the blackness and the bed. The EMF remained quiet as it had through the entire search of the first floor. Dean nuzzled up to Sam and bent close, his voice low. "This is where the little neighborhood girls died." He nodded to the bed. "Might need to salt and burn that."

Sam glanced over. The stains suddenly had an all too different meaning to him now. He swallowed and nodded back. Dean patted his left shoulder. "Upstairs."

The older hunter whizzed up ahead of his younger brother, taking the steps two at a time. Sam clobbered up behind him, getting tangled up a few times in the middle of the staircase. The steps were steep, deeper then he remembered as he chased his partner up them. Ten years ago, his partner had been much smaller than Dean, though. Blonde and pretty. And screaming.

Dean motioned again and Sam automatically rolled his eyes. Top of the stairs and the older brother took a hard left, swinging into a long ago bedroom. Probably the parents. It appeared to be barren now. Flashlights and guns guiding them against the dark walls, closet checked. They slowly backed up and cased the next bedroom, much smaller than the first one. Also empty. Also easy to survey. They only had one room left, the only door on the right. Most definitely had been a bedroom and from the remnants left behind it had belonged to the younger brothers. Two small mattresses still laid there, stacked on one another, the ceiling slanting down from above dorming the area. Only a tiny person could walk so close to the wall and not hit their head. And there was the shoe. Old-fashioned-sweet, brown leather, laces intact - found way over in the corner. Dean thought it was a mouse at first but it didn't move. He walked over and picked it up, holding it up by fragile shoestrings for Sam to see.

Dean checked the EMF. Nothing. No readings. No creepy feelings. No noises. Then he remembered – the basement. God, he didn't want to go down there. Didn't want to take Sam down there. But they had a job to do and so far they were sucking at it. He turned and motioned towards his brother to follow and then stopped. In the darkened room, Dean squinted his eyes, sweeping over to Sam. The younger man was already moving backwards, taking steps on wobbly legs. He tumbled back and reached for the door but only found the wall. He shut his eyes and could feel the room tilt from under his feet. His knees buckled, keeping his long form upright. The black circled him, shading the light from his face. Icy pricks stung his skin and his whole body began to shiver. His heart thumped anxiously in his ears. He felt the pounding whoosh in his head as his blood surged through his limbs. Pain started deep in his gut and spread, lurching up to his chest making it hard to breathe. Suffocating. _Dean, I'm suffocating._ He gasped and felt a warm sensation on the back of his neck.

_Huh_, he breathed. Before it had been cold.

Then a voice. Not a scream. Last time it was most definitely a scream. This, however, was a voice he'd know anywhere. Even in the dark.

"Sam."

He opened his eyes. There was nothing in front of him to see but he could feel breath. And Dean as he sounded his name out. "Sammy, you with me?"

Had he gone somewhere? He must have. He didn't feel like he was quite back even now, but he nodded. Involuntary response.

"You okay?"

Another nod. But the hand still stayed there, anchoring him back to the present. He always needed anchoring, even when he fought against it. Sam took in a choppy, almost fearful breath.

"Dean, I think I'm gonna get sick."

The hand squeezed his neck once, hard and quick, and it released. "Let's get you outta here then."

Sam's jacket was being jerked on again and he followed without pouting this time back through the hallway down the stairs and easily out of the doors.

Too easy.

The night air felt fresh and cleansing and full in Sam's lungs. He didn't even mind Dean leading him back to the Impala. He heard the grind of the familiar hinges as his brother's baby awaited him and Dean gracefully pushed Sam down onto the loving seats of leather. He listened as Dean's feet tramped in the snow away from him and then near him again. He felt hands against his temple and opened his eyes to see a bunched-up t-shirt being folded near his head and the car rest. Dean gingerly curved his brother towards it.

"Relax."

Sam's eyes widened. His head swiveled around to find Dean crouched near the snow, his face turned up towards him, his teeth turning neon under the moonlight. The constriction of hazel batted back to him. "What?"

Sam shook his head. "It's just… you said that to me. Before."

Dean's eyes slid to the corners. "Relax? Yeah, Sam, I've said that to you before."

The leather crunched under him as he sat up higher. "No, you said that to me before. When we lived here. When…" his voice broke off for a moment and then a memory. "Amanda Brewer."

Dean cocked his head, his face softening. "Yeah, probably."

Sam was scootching himself down to the edge of the front seat now, almost forcing Dean to take a crab-crawl back. "Why were you here? With me, back then?" He gestured towards the house. "Here."

"I was here… after I got a call that you were knocked out and some poor girl was dead in that house, Sam. I came right over."

"Dad?"

"He wasn't here that night. He was out on a hunt."

Sam looked down at his jeans, his fingers fisting in the denim. He'd been knocked out. That was probably why he couldn't remember certain events so well. Dad was on a hunt. Hell, he was always on a hunt. When it mattered. Never there when he needed him. No, that was Dean's job, too.

"What do you remember?" Dean's voice sailed to him.

The Impala was quiet, but there was music booming inside of Sam. Something was on the car radio that night when they relocated Emily Pruitt's party to the murder house. Emily had stolen the old Buick from her parent's garage, cramming eight kids in it while the rest had walked the mile to the old haunt. Sam was in the car with Amanda, in the backseat, the music blaring. Amanda was turned, talking to him, but he couldn't hear her, only the music as they pulled up to a stop.

Sam eyes lifted to Dean's.

_Daddy didn't give attention _

_To the fact that Mommy didn't care_

_King Jeremy the wicked_

_Ruled his world_…

"Dude, are you singing?" Soft, waiting. He would always wait for Sam.

_The car door slammed from Sam's grip, as he was pulling Amanda up the sidewalk, where the other kids were. Congregating, laughing, daring. Her blue eyes turned up to him, smiling, her face shining. She could trust Sam, he wasn't like the other boys she knew.  
_

"_Come on!" Her jacket was ripped from Sam into Emily's hands, stretching it in her grip. Emily barreled by the boy, dragging Amanda with her, racing him to the end of the walkway. "Come on! You're going in, too!" she teased. "You can protect us! Double dog dare!" _

_Sam reached the girls and hooked his arm in Amanda's. She was nervous, apprehensive. Sam smiled down at her and part of her somewhere started to thing she could do this. She felt her body being coaxed and lulled up the steps of the front porch and she stopped feeling Sam stop with her. She wasn't alone and she squeezed his hand in thanks._

_Sam took her onto the neglected porch, the floor boards creaking under his body weight, giving softly in broken areas, others wet and mushy under his shoes. He brought Amanda close to him, feeling her tremble. She pressed closer, letting her arms wrap around his neck and he bent down to feel her lips against his._

"_I don't want to go in." Not exactly the kiss he was hoping for. Amanda's eyes flew over to catch Emily waiting on the porch with them. _

"_Can't welch now. I dared you."_

_Amanda looked over with scared, frightened eyes. "Well, I dared you, too, and I take it back. You don't have to go in."_

_Emily backed up to the door. "Oh, I'm going in." She glared over to her friend and waited for her response. No backing out. Not this time. Amanda never had it in her to go through with anything anyways. Cheerleading. Volleyball. Chorus. She'd joined them all with Emily and then quit on her. But this was one thing her friend was going to be sure she accomplished. _

_Amanda let go of Sam and walked across the porch to bend over the railing. She cupped her face over the windows and peered through the glass. It was black inside, no way she could have seen anything in there without a light. "I think there's something in there."_

_Sam perked up from behind them. "What is it?"_

_Amanda turned back around. "I don't know… but I'm not going in."_

_The music was still blaring, the car doors wide open._

_Clearly I remember pickin' on the boy_

_Seemed a harmless little fuck_

_But we unleashed a lion…_

"Yeah, I know that song," Dean started humming along.

"_Come on, you promised…"_

"_No." Amanda pulled her jacket around her, her arms remaining around her waist. _

_Sam was looking into the windows behind her. He turned back to her. "I don't see anything in there. Really. It's okay. I'll go in with you." _

_Amada stared at him for a minute and her face started to release. Just a couple of steps in and Sam would be there with her, ready to pull her out. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Her eyes snapped up to Emily still standing with her back to the door. "Okay." Amanda agreed. She took a step, watching as Emily moved over._

"_You first," Emily goaded. She moved all the way over, exposing the old door, the rough handle. _

_Amanda felt weak in her knees, felt sweat trickle down her temple, her palms becoming clammy as she reached for the knob. She caught something white flash from inside the house through the window teasing her and she stopped cold, taking a step back. "No, I'm not…"_

_  
"Oh, my God!" Emily exclaimed. "You are such a chicken shit!" she pushed at the blonde girl and Amanda whirled around, thrusting her back. She wouldn't fight, she just wanted to get the Hell off that porch. She shoved by her friend, her shoulder smacking into her as she passed, acrylic nails coming up to press her even further away. _

"_Bitch! Go!" Emily yelled after her, watching as she disappeared into the crowd of teenagers on the lawn and sidewalk. She turned her attention back to the tall brown haired boy standing in a gaze of aftershock. Hadn't really ever seen a cat fight first hand before. "Going after her?" she asked, her voice dropping lower. _

_Sam pushed himself from the railing. "Yeah."_

"_Wait." Emily edged up quickly in front of him, blocking his way down the steps. Her arms crawled in between her body and his. "Still want to go in? I mean, I'd feel better if someone was in there with me. Hold my hand?" _

_Sam took a small step back, his backside hitting the railing behind him. Pinned. "Uh," he looked down and caught the innocent gleam in Emily's eyes. Pure and young and wanting. "Maybe."_

_Emily's arms draped over Sam's shoulders before he even realized it. She didn't speak, didn't ask, just used her hands to draw him down, bend him towards her, straining her neck up, eyes closing, lips pouting, mouths opening, bodies touching. _

_How could I forget _

_He hit me with a surprise left_

_My jaw left hurting _

_Dropped wide open…_

_Sam was already lost in her mouth. They weren't like Amanda's, sweet and green. These lips were plump and pungent, hot against his. Her tongue didn't plunge like Amanda's, it danced. Sam leaned back and let the old rickety rail take his weight. _

"_Sam!" the shrill knifed through them both, slicing the kiss apart. Emily's head reared back, turning away as Amanda stormed up the stairs to the porch. She reached her skinny arm out and pushed Sam's shoulder and then flipped around to Emily. One slap across the face and her fingers were tangled in her friend's hair, pulling and tugging. Emily lashed back, her fingernails digging into Amanda's upper arms. Both girls screaming and yelling. Obscenities flew out of the fourteen-year-olds mouths like they were skilled bar woman and their bodies hurdled in a circle around the squeaking floorboards. _

_Sam's own long arms came in between them, pulling and pushing, until they let go of one another. Emily still kicking here and there, the crowd from the lawn making their way around the old porch. Laughs and jeers and scant meows filled their voices as Sam narrowed his eyes at each girl. "Stop" and "Don't" coming from his own mouth. _

_The girls glowered at one another, breasts heaving from gulping breaths, heat burning off their young bodies. Simultaneously, their heads wheeled around and stopped on Sam. _

_Juvenile hands came up in his own defense, the young hunter holding the two girls from tearing into one another and him. He smiled bashfully and then broke out into a full out grin, a laugh escaping into the air when he tried to talk. Finding himself amused at the unusual situation. Reminding himself that this was normally Dean's forte, not his kid brother's. _

_Emily smiled back in return, feeling an acceptance from the young man. Naughty, not nice, sometimes felt pretty good, too. Amanda's lips quivered and then her chin and before anything could be said, tears were spilling onto her cheeks. Sam's grin broke and his face sobered up. Intention or not, he watched her heart break right there in front of him… and fifty other shouting kids. Humility at its worst and by popular vote.  
_

"_Em-i-ly! Em-i-ly!" the kids were chanting the dirty blonde haired girl's name over and over, jesting Sam to chose, mocking him to decide._

_Emily turned to her friend and smirked. "He's a really good kisser." Amanda's head tilted towards her faint voice. "But if you want him, if you really do… I'll give him up," and then her tone hit rock bottom. "but you have to go in the house."_

_Amanda's head tilted the other way then. The white paint peeling off, the wood crumbling next to her, begging someone to pull a strip off. Her eyes drifted back over to Sam and studied him for a few seconds. His face was soft, his features were honest, true. He shook his head at her. "Don't. You don't have to go in." Then in a last ditch effort he added, "I'm sorry." _

"_Me, too," she whispered and she turned her body around and pulled back on the handle, dashing in before she changed her mind. _

"_Amanda!" Sam yelled her name out in annoyance more than anything and he scurried in after her._

_Jeremy spoke in class today_

_Try to forget this.. _

_Try to erase this…_

_From the blackboard._

Dean blinked at him, rubbing his hands together like he did when he was nervous. This time it was because he was cold as well, pulling his gloves off his sweaty palms moments after Sam had started talking, giving him his full, undivided attention.

"You remember after you went in the house? What happened?"

That was the most important part, after all.

Sam stared down at him, his eyes darker than they had been before he'd started talking. "Bits and pieces. Hard to put together."

Dean's mouth frowned. "Yeah." He looked back to the decaying ignored haunt behind him. "Well, it doesn't seem like the house is haunted. Unless…" his voice broke away.

Sam was glaring at him. "The basement."

"Remember anything about it?"

Sam thought hard. Amanda had stopped right after she entered the house, Sam nearly plowed into her. She turned towards him, her fingernails digging into his upper arm. She ran and Sam chased her. The kitchen? He wasn't sure. Then something hit them. "No. It happened right away."

"What happened, Sam?" It was an order. Tell me everything. A command. Stop keeping secrets. A plea. Let me in the dark with you.

But it wasn't that easy to answer. Sam purposely kept things from him. To protect them both. Or so he told himself. No need in worrying a protective older brother who was going to die in two months about things that he would probably never live to find out about. It was a brilliant plan. "I'm not sure. It was… something."

"Well, that narrows it down," Dean replied sarcastically.

Sam's face fell, disappointed in himself more than anything. He thought for sure coming back to the scene of the crime would provoke his memory.

"Hey," Dean slapped his brother's knee. "It's okay. It'll come."

Sam gave him a weak smile. He knew if he never figured out what his super powers were, Dean's was most definitely mind reading. A slight nod was returned to the older hunter.

"We always figure it out. Don't worry."

"I'm not worried," Sam mumbled.

It was hard for Dean to ignore the sucking lemons face that Sam was wearing. But he agreed against his better judgment. "Okay." Sometimes with the younger brother, as with the older, it was best to just let it go.

Sam settled his shoulders back and looked out onto the lawn, thinking. Okay, so maybe it wasn't the house that was the problem. He remembered a feeling, a sensation when he was in the house ten years ago. A force. But there certainly didn't seem to be one now. No feeling like someone or something was lurking around or watching them.

"Dean." Sam's voice was edgy and the older brother looked up, following Sam's gaze.

There, across the yard, coming into the light of the street was a small figure. Hair blew out of its face, a coat cinched tightly around the middle, boots crunched up the walkway.

"I'll be damned," Dean mumbled as he stood, watching. His eyes followed as Emily Pruitt-Walters hiked up the steps of the old porch and seemed to disappear into the darkness of the murder house. He turned and canted his head towards his brother, still sitting in the Impala. "What do you say, Romeo?"

Sam sighed. "Think it's in Emily?" Uncertain eyes lifted to his brother's.

Dean really didn't know. Didn't care. He just wanted to get rid of the thing and have it over with. He was wanting to get a lot of things over with these days, though. "Well, she's not acting, you know, natural."

Natural wasn't something Sam was so familiar with, either. Pretending was more his style. But it bothered him that he wasn't remembering this part of this life. Barely remembering he had even lived there. That wasn't natural. He'd been there before – on that lawn, in those rooms - and _something_ had happened. It was time to learn what. Remember why. Be sure it wasn't him that was to blame. Things had a way of working out where he was the reason, the cause. He climbed out of the Chevy and closed the door. Dean handed him his glock.

"If you're tangoed up, Sam, you just tango on."

Sam chuckled. "You asking me to dance?"

Dean was asking for more but he would have taken less. "Feel up to it?"

_No. _Sam slowly nodded. "You lead."

Dean flashed a _'duh'_ look in his direction. "Well, yeah." He turned and started to dredge back the way they came with Sam in tow.

**Playlist:** _Jeremy_ from Pearl Jam

**A/N:** Okay, a bit long. Hope it entertained. I'll have the next chapter up in a couple of days. See if we can find anyone to play with in that old haunt…


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** See Part One

**A/N:** Before we continue, I want to give a shout out to Kerry, my anon reviewer. Hey, Kerry! You know, I added that one bed thing right before I posted because I had broken my chapters up a little unplanned and I thought I needed something there. I forgot that originally I had two beds in the room. That's what happens when you add something at the last minute. So, my answer to you is I guess there's like 18 little beds in that room but if you push them together you can create one Queen bed or a couple twin beds. Thanks for catching it. Those are always my favorite reviews.

Okay, now, into the woods… I mean, the house.

**Part Three**

They didn't make a dramatic entrance as they went into the house this time. A hushed turn of the iron knob and Dean used the sawed-off to gently slide the wooden door open. He crept in first, Sam at his back. No flashlights right away, they'd let their eyes adjust to the dark and hope the light spritzing in from the outside would be enough.

They entered the living room and quickly assessed it silently. There were studies on siblings and twins who grew up so closely that they no longer needed words. They used hand signals, gestures. The Winchesters had grown up nipped and tucked with each another and only needed what they could feel. Sam knew to go to the left, Dean would take the right. They were trained, skilled. Each knew the others strength and their weakness. Of course, the answer was the same to each question. But that was just semantics.

The living room took ten seconds. They were, so far, alone. The scurrying of mice along the walls and the scratching of branches against the exterior were the only sounds that met them. It was unsettling and uncomforting with the quiet blaring like sirens ringing in their ears.

Dean moved into the next room, always first, rifle raised out from his chest, eyes swiftly maneuvering back and forth. The mangled up kitchen was straight ahead and as Dean advanced he felt like he had just waltzed them into a refrigerator. A small lean figure appeared from the corner behind them. Too close to Sam. Too close for Dean. The boys turned smoothly in tandem with one another, both guns aimed, ready to fire.

But it was Emily. Her dishwater colored hair falling stylishly to her shoulders, her deep brown eyes catching the shine of the outside street lamp, imploring them. _Help me._ They had seen that look before. Desperation and hope. Trapped in forces she couldn't control. And the next second the curtain lifted, the brown turning to charcoal and her faced turned up like a jack-o-lantern. She was unearthly.

"Aw, Sam." Her voice purred when she spoke. Not surprisingly excited and oddly unattached as before. No, this time, she was very attached. With a flick of her hand a dusty wind kicked up from the kitchen, the floor cracking from the movement. It whooshed through the dining room, feathering the brothers' hair in the process. Angrily and aggressively it blew into the living room ending with the slam of the open front door.

Her eyes glimmered and looked youthful again. Fourteen maybe. Before innocence is lost and adulthood takes over. Where dreams and monsters are still real and you believe you can do anything. Before you grow up and have to fool yourself to get the same results.

Dean took the shot. Rock salt to the chest. Hoping to spare Emily's body and expel the spirit – if that's what it was – out of its host.

A right hand shot from the opposing team and the rock pellet stopped mid-air. Emily's face grinned as Sam fired the glock. One swift 'wax on' motion and his consecrated iron wisped to a placid stop.

"Tsk. Tsk." She shook her head. "What is it with boys and guns? Can't keep them out of your hands or in your pants. Always waving them around." Her hand pushed out and Dean flew across the dining area, unseen powers pinning him to the opposite wall, his shotgun falling with a clang. "Guns and games." She pushed harder and Dean could feel his head pulling back, the bones of his neck becoming rigid at the force. He tugged back against it as his muscles gave, crushing his throat, making air suddenly very precious.

She, however, smiled. "Can't breathe? You always were a little full of yourself."

"Let go of him," Sam demanded from his immobile spot in the middle of the room.

A sing-song "ooh" escaped her lips as her small stature skirted up to the dark haired man. Sam's fingers were flexed, stiff on the trigger as she calmly snaked his glock from out of his steady hands. His eyes followed her movements, his facial muscles seeming to be the only thing he had control over.

"Well, isn't this my lucky day." She whispered into the air, cloud formations vaporized as she spoke.

Sam's throat bobbed up and down, working hard to keep his emotion at bay. "Emily," he started, "fight it."

Chilly hands were reaching behind his head, grabbing fists full of hair, arching Sam's neck back. She pulled hard, his back giving with the stretch, feeling the vertebrae start to separate in pain. He was falling backwards, his arms unable to move to catch him. She dragged him harder until she was satisfied, his face to her height, hazels meeting charcoal. A long wet pink tongue came funneling out of her mouth, licking the young hunter from his collarbone to his temple. Sam's eyes dilated at the frigid sensation, her tongue cutting through his skin like glass. He could feel the trickle of red run sideways down his face to her waiting lips. She drew in a breath and exhaled, the moisture reappearing as jagged ice crystals in the small space between her and Sam.

"Emily…"

"I'm not Emily." She kissed his ear, the dead like lips brushing his sensitive skin. "I'm Amanda."

He didn't think he'd heard that correctly. She must have done something to his hearing.

Grunts and huffs of air strangled into the use-to-be dining room. Dean craned his neck from the wall and then his left shoulder and his right.

Amanda didn't look up but she paused, her right hand raising up again, striking Dean against the wall. She hesitated a few seconds and then curling her fingers into the invisible, she pulled the older brother's head forward and slammed it back breaking into crippling plaster, a low grumble uncorking from his throat.

Sam looked over trying to see his brother, grasp his contact, the younger man's eyes gliding over as far as they could, until pain filled behind his orbs.

Only Emily stared back.

"Please." Sam murmured.

Her pupils were dark, haunting behind pale skin. Even with the scant light cascading in through the glass, she seemed to illuminate as she circled her boyish crush. Her hold released on the hunter and his body snapped upright, blood bucketing in pools, finding their vessels and capillaries once again.

"Please? Please what?" she taunted.

Sam was dizzying, the room turning and twirling. He couldn't find words. Couldn't respond.

"Please don't kill my brother?" She teased maliciously, glancing over to find Dean glowering at her. "Oh, his time's comin'." She grinned at him and turned back to Sam. "Maybe you should be a little more worried about yourself."

"Bitch, don't you make me fucking..." Dean shot off from behind.

"Don't let you fucking what?" the words slithered hotly from her mouth in frosty bites, ending in a small waterfall, splashing on the wood floor.

Dean smirked. He'd gotten a rise out of her. Maybe there was a pulse in there after all. "You touch my brother and I'll rip you apart."

Another quick flash and the darkness softened behind her lashes. "Oh, he's fair game, sporto. You should know that by now."

"What do you want?" Sam redirected her attention. In the haze, he knew one thing – she was a good talker. Sam could talk lots of people out of doing lots of things.

It seemed to work. "First I want some answers. Then I'll just take." Her bony fingers skimmed down his neck and onto his shoulder. She danced her body around him as she brought her arm to rest over his waist. Her touch was sub zero freezing. She reached in under his shirt, her hand stroking his muscle, skin against skin. Wicked and bruising, his abdomen burned hot and sour from the frosty touch.

"Take what?" Sam asked through clenched teeth.

She only answered with her smile, with her eyes studying Sam. Steadying him. From his periphery he could see something move, something float towards him in a refined fashion. His head wouldn't turn, his arms were solid. His own eyes darted from one side to the other.

"Sam!" his brother's bark.

"Dean, what is it?" Sam yelled anxiously. He couldn't see it, couldn't see what was advancing towards him.

"It's… it's gonna try to take you, Sam!"

"What?" Take him where?

Then low and helpless he heard, "Take _over_ you."

_Aw, God, no. No, no, no._ Not going to happen. Not going to let anything in him again. His mind spun, thinking of action he could take and then he remembered - they had gotten the tattoos to fend off demon possession. Hopefully it would work against spirit possession as well.

Sam could see better now as the shape molded, becoming formed. A young man, possibly once fair-haired with sunken eyes of long ago looked to Sam, his new hopeful chariot. He met his face with his own, ghostly hands strumming through his bangs, locking into his painted gaze.

"Let him go! Sam, don't look! Shut your eyes!" came the command from behind.

But Sam couldn't close his eyes if he wanted to. And he did want to, but the force was too strong. Out of his hands. He watched as the apparition hovered over him, seeking a door in, a window to his being.

"No," Sam breathed. "No, I won't let you."

Emily waited on the sidelines, watching the wrestling match unfold. She quietly cheered on her team, coaxing him with deep purrs trilling her vocal cords. Dean watched from a far, a disadvantaged point, roaring his brother to fight.

The spirit pressed its palms on Sam's cheeks and drifted intensely on his body, meshing itself oddly to his lanky build. It pulled back and approached its victim again, sliding along the tall frame, searching for a way in.

Sam felt the cold blaze catch on fire deep inside. He pushed, shoved against the flame, attempting to use the only thing useful to him to extinguish it: his mind. He felt the fingers creep around his head, felt it force his mouth open, the cold trying to find a home, nestle in for the night.

"No. Stop. _No._" He gulped as the icy pain shifted around him, looking for another entry point. The spirit crawled on his forehead, looking into his ears, spaces where he could gain access. Then Sam jolted, his brain pulling into overdrive. "C-can't." he stammered out.

Amanda's eyes in Emily's sockets fell to disbelief as the thin shape of her specter scathed back from the younger hunter. A faded, pale ghostly image cast shadowy orbs to Emily's distraught figure. Defeated.

"Brady," she moaned, the name falling from her mouth with passion. No icy breaths formed from either being. They were very much engaged in their own heat.

"Love…" he started.

The front door suddenly swung open, the spirit over Sam rigidly became alarmed. He snuck a slide glace at Emily and then vanished into thin air. Suddenly the younger Winchester could turn his head and his neck swiveled to Emily. Dean's body fell to the floor with a thud, he scrambled for his sawed-off and raised it towards the blonde woman. One shot, hitting her in the abdomen. She fell forward, the strike bending her in half as she toppled, feeling the pellets break into tiny particles smashing all over her middle. The gasp that rang out sunk Dean back down to his knees.

Emily's eyes graced over to the older hunter in adoration and then she took a nose-dive into the waiting wood planks under her. Standing directly behind her form, was Amanda, faded and mystified, but certainly escaped from her human host.

"Bastard." She mouthed to Dean and disappeared before the brothers could clamor off the floor.

"Sam?" Dean had moved on, bringing the rifle around his body, willing himself off the wood planks to his kid brother's side.

Sam was panting heavily. Dean's hand cupped his shoulder. "Tats worked, huh?" Dean sounded proud of himself for coming up with the idea of the tattoos in the first place.

An eyebrow raised and Sam wiped away blood spilling off his cheek. "I'm not sure that's…"

A rackety bellow sounded in the living room and the brothers turned to look into the black. A step and then another. The door whacked shut again by its own freewill and a shadow started towards the two men. It was noisy and clumsy, not at all like the other two they had met during their quick trip down memory lane.

The older hunter's eyes widened as it got closer. "Sonuvabitch." It just kept getting better and better.

Dean brought his gun out in front of him just when both hunters heard the small helpless cry from below.

"My baby…"

WWW

Emily Pruitt never thought she would be able to have children. Suffering from severe endometriosis during her young adult life, her tubes had been irrevocably scarred, according to numerous gynecologists. It had devastated the ultra-fit and healthy woman. But she was strong-willed and lucky enough to find love. The former wild child found the person who could reign her in without smothering and she found a true balance with him. Her future husband didn't balk when she told him parenthood wouldn't be in their future. He loved her more than himself. They would have kids one day. Naturally or not. So after only two years of marriage, it shocked them both to discover Emily was indeed pregnant and joyfully the nine months coasted smoothly along. The two days of labor, however, did not. Eleven pounds of baby barreling out of her vagina did nothing to help her already endangered reproductive system. After the hemorrhages and her uterus being massaged outside of her body for an hour after the complicated delivery, the doctors had to insist upon a hysterectomy.

"It's okay," Troy consoled, "We have Hailey. She is our little miracle."

And she was.

Sam dropped down next to the shell of a woman who was once a happy and content wife and mother. His large hands moved her blonde hair off her face and he put a warm, gentle palm over her shoulder blade. Creeping over her body he could see the flutter of her lashes swiping her cheeks. He waited. Quietly waiting for the fog to lift and the painful reality to settle in. Memories in flashbulbs recreating the past few days like an old time movie playing out in slow motion. The events of that day. Seeing Mr. Martin. Unleashing her seatbelt to give help. Her whole life safely strapped in a car seat...

"Hailey." Her enlarged lips mouthed, feeling too big for her face. Still stuck in limbo. Her eyes slid shut.

Dean allowed one fast look at his brother crouching near Emily before he started stalking ahead. He readjusted his hands on the sawed-off, positioning his finger over the trigger. His boots advanced him like a fire engine towards the messy shape dead ahead.

Hands whipped up, palms pressed out, flying high as if Dean were the law. The hunter blinked at the figure curiously and then it spoke to him. Frantically.

"Don't shoot! Oh, God! Don't fucking shoot!"

The rifle lowered an inch, Dean's shoulders sagged. "Omaha?" His voice broke for a split second, fear and anger topping one another for first slot.

The hands stayed up, quivering, palms forward. "Don't kill me! Aw, fucking Christ! I come in peace!"

Dean put the gun down all together in bristled annoyance. "I'm not gonna kill you, Einstein. Yet." And then after a pause he shouted back, "What the Hell are you doing here anyway?"

The hands hesitantly lowered, eyeing the older hunter as he did. He took a shuffle forward, leaving the darkness of the living room for the darkness of the dining room. Dean flicked on his flashlight, shining the beam in Omaha's path.

"I saw you guys come in…"

"Hiding in the neighbor's bushes again?" Dean whipped him a _'pervert'_ glance. "Watch your step."

Omaha looked down as a mouse scratched across the wood floor. "Ugh." He withdrew his foot and kicked back into his best karate stance.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Dean huffed. "Dude, you need to get outta here."

Omaha's eyes had already shifted and dropped, connecting to the form laying motionless on the floor. "Is that Emily?" his voice was higher than normal again.

Dean nodded, his own gaze sliding over to his brother who was knelt down by the young mother. Yeah, it was definitely Emily now. "How is she?" he directed towards Sam.

Hands released the small body and Sam stood up, watching her. "I don't know. I think she's in shock."

Dean clipped the flashlight to his belt and walked to them. "Let's get her out of here." He bent down, starting to reach over and help pull the woman up when Sam stopped him.

"I got her." He slid easily in and hoisted the small frame into his arms. She fit just like she was meant to be there and he held on just like he was suppose to. There was a moan from the back of her throat but she never spoke. Never opened her eyes.

Omaha was already at the door pulling on the handle. He placed a firm hand on the door trim and yanked once and then twice, his biceps curling with the motion. The door didn't budge. He looked over to the Winchesters. "It doesn't…"

Dean rushed up behind him and pushed the dark haired boy aside. He reached down and tugged and pulled. His face reddening from the force. "God dammit."

Sam repositioned Emily in his arms. "Window?" he suggested.

His older brother twitched his mouth but was already walking over to one of the odd shaped panes in the living area. He pulled out his Colt and aimed towards the largest one. "Cover yourself." He hesitated only a few seconds, giving the others time to take cover and fired into the glass. The bullet flew out of the gun, pinging off the window and boomeranged back towards the hunter. Dean quickly ducked his head to avoid the repercussions skidding back to him.

He lowered the gun and pirated a look at Sam. His brother managed to lower Emily's body back down to the wood floor. "Won't let us out?"

A tight shake of the head.

"What?" Omaha's fright elevated his voice an octave more.

Dean backed away from the window. "The bitch won't let us out." His hand went to the railing of the staircase and his eyes ventured up. "Fucking bitch!" he yelled, the 'itch' echoing into the upstairs rooms.

Sam came up behind him, feeling the heat pour off his brother's back. His shoulders were tense in frustration, tiny beads of sweat forming on the nape of his neck. Sam saw a quick shake of his hand on the rail. Dean wasn't just angry. He was nervous.

Sam swallowed and then he murmured, "It didn't get me."

This time.

He watched Dean's head fall forward. They each had silent fears they didn't need to disclose to the other. Fears for the other dying. Fears for the other hurting. Fears for the other being possessed. Fears for the other.

"Yeah, well," Dean bucked around. "Omaha doesn't have a tattoo to protect him and Emily…"

Sam was following his train of thought. Two innocent people hanging out in a haunted house with a couple of ghost hunters was not an ideal working situation. Hell, Dean was worried enough just protecting Sam and now they had two other cooks in the kitchen to stress about.

"We need a plan." Sam spoke Dean's thoughts. "Dad didn't say what he did when he was here before? To get rid of it?"

John Winchester hadn't said much about that night to his son. Didn't tell him anything useful. Except that Sam could never come back to that house. He was beyond angry when he entered through the doors, fighting hard. He came out the winner and beyond afraid. Dean rarely saw his Dad carry fear and that was enough to scare his oldest son.

Winner didn't always take all.

"He came in with everything we have now. That I know of, at least." He felt Sam's eyes still on him, waiting for more. "That I remember."

_Protect Sam. Watch after Sam. Save Sam. _

"Well, we got to move. Protect these people and get them to safety."

Maybe mind reading was one of Sam's new hidden talents, Dean laughed to himself. Or perhaps it was his younger brother still mimicking the older. Thinking like him. Either way, they had to set up camp and the living room was big enough for the four of them to be near one another and cover angles of the house. The front door was right there as well in case they got a shot at a descent escape.

They curled Emily into a corner of the living area, near to the windows. Easier to keep her guarded if she wasn't in the open. Sam poured an ample amount of salt around her, circling her in bitter protection the only way they knew how. He turned and joined Omaha and his brother at the staircase. Dean was cluing the dark haired man in on what he had missed while he was crouched in the neighbors yard armed with nothing more than binoculars.

"So, the… spirit… of Amanda Brewer is in this house?" He wasn't in disbelief. He was more along the lines of acceptance. "Why Amanda?"

Dean gave him an honest shrug. "We don't know but sometimes when people die tragically their spirit gets trapped. It can be to an object or a house or a person."

"Where is she now?"

Dean's hands spanned and he glanced around. "Not sure exactly, but they're probably still here. Doing what we're doing."

"And what exactly is that?"

"Preparing."

A quick flash of fright glimmered on the dark eyes staring at him, but he smiled, trying to mask his inner feelings. "W-what are they preparing for?"

_Take over_. Dean looked at Sam and then back to the younger man. "They don't want us to leave, you know. And Amanda, she seems to be able to do things that normal spirits aren't able to."

"Like stop bullets in mid-air." Sam rang in. "And she has a friend. We're not sure how powerful it is."

Omaha nodded. "Who's the other spirit? An axe?" He was wide-eyed when he looked back to Dean this time. He'd been living the legends of the house from the neighbor's front lawns for a long time.

"Yeah, we don't actually know." The older hunter lifted his brows, forehead wrinkling, staring back. "It was definitely a guy. Young."

"She called him Brady," Sam supplied.

"Brady?" Dean and Omaha quipped in unison.

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Yeah?"

The other two were sharing the familiar connection. Omaha smiled big. "Well, shit." The smile turned into a half-ass grin. "Freaky shit!"

"What?" Sam's arms spread apart.

Dean blinked, processing things quickly. Discarding what he didn't know, keeping the facts straight. Brady had died years before Emily. Other people had died near or in the house but they were apparently not spirited here. Why Brady? Why Amanda? Why Emily? Then he got it. "Yahtzee."

It was getting late and Sam was tired. He pinched the bridge of his nose and blinked away the sleep forming in the corners of his eyelids. "What?"

"Brady…"

"Marlow," Omaha chirped. Everyone in the small town knew everything about this house. Well, at least everything that happened after the cops arrived.

Dean's fingers snapped at the waiter. "Right. Brady Marlow died here a little over fifteen, twenty years before Amanda. Then Amanda bites it. Both of them get locked to the house and they've been living here the whole time. Nobody but them. Got a house. Got their youth. Got each other. Only thing they don't really have is… life. A body. Make house real. Can't eat. Can't go past the front yard. Can't touch."

"Can't get their invisible freak on." Omaha gestured his finger humping through his closed fist.

Sam ignored him. Dean chuckled.

"So what about the other bodies? Why kill them and just leave them?" Sam thought back to Mr. Martin dying out on the lawn. Tina and Moon Pie had both kicked it on the sidewalk. And Hailey… he looked over to Emily. There was no human reason for a three-year-old to die. If the youngster had seen her attacker Sam hoped that the face she stared into was not that of her mother's. His body silently shivered and he looked to the other two.

"Well, I have a theory about that," Dean replied. He flipped his thumb to Omaha. "You said Tina was, uh…" he moved his hand in a circle around his face. "Pimply?" he softened Omaha's description of the poor girl.

Dark curly hair bounced in agreement.

"And Mr. Martin looked like…" he stopped. Sam's turn.

"Chris Farley."

"Right." There was a pause. "We all remember Moon Pie. He didn't have a growth spurt over the years. Except in width." He sighed. "Then Emily came along. Pretty. Blonde. Thin. Perfect."

"Except for Hailey."

They all fell silent then. In the afterlife little girls could be disguised as so many horrible creatures. Demons loved to hide in bodies of the small and female. But in reality little girls were sugar and spice. And suppose to live until they were Great-Grandmothers.

"So what?" Sam's voice interrupted the silence. "You're saying they're choosy?"

"I said it was a _theory_." Dean lifted a shoulder. "I don't know. It's not like they're out shopping for a starter house, Sam. And some spirits don't have the best eyesight when they're out floating around. They just see something familiar, narrow in on a target and when they get closer, maybe it wasn't what they were mortgaging for." He waited a beat. "What they're doing takes a lot of work and I think if they're going to do it right, they probably figure they'd better do it right the first time."

"So, they are looking for people they think they'd be attracted to, if they were actually alive."

"Amanda seems to like Emily's body and, you know, they even have a history there. Seems like they were trying to find the perfect parasite for Brady. Someone she'd want to be with." He locked eyes with Sam, Omaha's gaze following him.

"Me?" Sam truly sounded surprised.

"She thought your ass was cute once, dude."

Once a long time ago before she was forced to run into a haunted house because a young Sam had a momentary lapse of reason. Before she had to die and have her soul trapped and only then meet her true love. Sam looked down at his boots, scuffing them along the wood planks. He felt the rush of blood leave his upper body, his head swirling from the sudden dizziness. It had been because of him. Of course it was. Sam had screwed up and cost someone her life. No wonder he'd blocked it out of his memory.

"So what do we fuckin' do?" Omaha asked, wishing childishly for super Ghostbuster jet packs to strap on their backs. Ectoplasm would be cool. They could be possibly hanging with the gatekeeper and the key master already. He was all lit up with excitement.

"We can repel it with rock salt. Stall them to get us enough time to get out of here so we can dig up their bones and salt and burn them. Guess we need to know where they're buried…"

"Up on the bluff, in the town cemetery," Omaha announced, happy to be of assistance. "Their graves are actually just a couple of stones away from each other."

Dean exchanged looks with Sam. If they could get out of the house, that would be doable. Close to proximity with one another was a big plus. His younger brother looked back at him, pale, pasty and sick.

"Sam."

"I'm okay, Dean." He dropped his eyes and watched out of his periphery as Dean hovered a few seconds and finally looked away.

An extra flask of holy water was given to Omaha as well as a silver blade. Dean explained in hushed tones how silver, salt and iron all worked well against most Evil. The goal in their particular case was to protect through the night and make it to see the light of day. Maybe they could figure a way out of the house then. All together, all intact.

Omaha glanced at his wristwatch. "It's 1:45. Still got about five hours until the sun comes up. Maybe a little less." It was still Winter, the sun in Iowa didn't make early appearances until Spring.

The brothers nodded. "Right, so you stay close. Don't go wandering around the house. And try not to sleep."

And then the fun started. The waiting. Dean sat on the second step of the staircase, sawed-off in hand. Sam sat near to Emily, checking on her from time to time. Still breathing, still sleeping. Probably for the best. Omaha paced the living area between the brothers. Listening to the silence, hearing the branches outside hit the windows, counting aloud the mice he saw as they boldly ventured in near the hunters. He hummed often, choosing '80's pop songs for his amusement. It started with Cyndi Lauper until Dean made a comment about what he was going to Bop. He changed to Duran Duran until the older Winchester made gagging sounds. Finally by the time he had hit _Wake Me Up_ _Before you Go-Go_, Dean was on his feet, threatening the meager kid.

He hadn't been completely serious, but Omaha had stopped the humming and went back to listening to the silence again. Dean had stormed back to his step, irritated with their third wheel, not needing the distraction or the added responsibility. He glared at the younger man out of the corner of his eye, who was almost dancing on top of the wood floor. It was like he was enjoying this.

Omaha checked his watch often, shining it up to the dim beam drizzling in from the outside streetlamps.

"1:58. Almost 2:00." He breathed hard and walked a few more paces, counting, listening, and then checking. "2:01. We passed 2:00."

"Omaha?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"If you don't shut the hell up I'm gonna shoot you in the ass."

There was a muted laugh from Sam and Omaha automatically checked his watch. 2:02. He'd keep that one to himself.

He let another few minutes pass by and finally crouched down in the center of the room, turning to face the Winchesters, resting on his hind haunches. He looked down at his wrist and felt Dean's discerning eyes fall on him. He gulped down the time and zinged his own attention from Sam to Dean and back again. Neither brother initiated any conversation, their facial expressions equally imitating the other.

"So," Omaha started after a few minutes of secretly playing the quiet game and losing, "this is what you guys do for a living?"

Stillness was the only response he received.

"Following in your Dad's footsteps, huh? I mean, I've heard of doctors kids becoming doctors, but this…" he paused and then muttered, "puts the f-u-c in dysfunction."

Sam and Dean both dipped their chins at that, identical smiles hiding in the dark for brief seconds.

"Did you call your Dad and tell him you were coming here? Maybe he could open the door from the outside? He kind of figured things out last time he busted in here."

"Yeah, and who were you with when he was here?" Dean challenged.

Omaha pointed out to the lawn. "Me and Moon Pie were across…"

"Did you call Moon Pie and tell him to meet you here?"

The dark haired kid squirmed under his own weight, his toes starting to painfully give. "No, Moon Pie's fucking dead, man."

Dean just stared, throwing darts, ripping holes, tossing punches until it was clear from the drop of Omaha's face that it had sunk in and rang a bell.

"Oh. Sorry." Was all they got. It was a lot more than most people gave, though.

Sam suddenly startled in his small space near the corner. His jacket was being tugged upon what he hoped wasn't a mouse and he scootched back quickly, pulling away to see Emily's fingers faintly grasping for him. Sam's throat bobbed up and down and he went on his knees, sidling near her, without crowding the woman.

"Emily?" He reached his hand out and placed it on her shoulder.

The young mother was on her right side, her blonde hair messed over her head, straggles hanging down, sticking to her cheek. Her light brown eyes opened and through long lashes matted together from former wetness and dust, she stared at Sam Winchester. She was back from her fantasy, her trance, where dreams still came true and was laying on a hard dirty floor with mice and boys and ghosts awaiting her.

"Emily?" Sam gave her a small smile, showing her they meant to harm.

She saw the turn of two other heads, looking in her direction. Something had happened. Maybe she had been in an accident or been knocked out some how. She pushed herself up on flimsy elbows and sat on her own, taking in her gloomy surroundings. Her stomach muscles pulled, hot and cold burning together and she could smell the faint scent of salt. Her eyes squinted in the dusty dark.

"Omaha?" she scraped out.

Omaha stood, walking towards his old high school friends. "Hey, Emily. How you feeling?"

A dainty hand came up and rubbed her head. "Like I was… knocked out and drugged." A horror masked her face and adrenaline kicked her into high gear. She scrambled back from the men, not seeing smiles and sweetness in them anymore. Her knees came up, protecting her small body, ready to blow and wallop anyone out of her way. She pulled her thin coat around her tighter as a wave of violation swam over her. "Oh, God."

"Hey, hey," Sam whispered, trying to soothingly convince and not deter the frightened victim. "We're here to help. We didn't hurt you."

Dean was on his feet, keeping his distance. No need for an audience. "We found you." His low voice called over, her face finding his shadowy body standing by Omaha.

Her hands started to release, the pink returning to her knuckles, her nails lessening from her palms, her knees falling slightly, relaxing. Her thoughts went somewhere else. "Hailey? Oh, God, I left her in the car." She shoved off from the wall, ignoring her pain and confusion. She stood upright and took a mama's step out of the salt circle.

Sam rose with her, hands palming towards her, restraining without touching; pleading without asking.

"Emily."

The mother pedaled on.

"Emily, wait. Just… please, just give me a minute. Listen to me."

She was rambling. Babbling about her daughter and wondering how could she just leave her there and how she was a bad mother and that Troy was going to be so mad at her.

"Emily." Dean placed strong hands firmly on her small shoulders. "Honey, you need to stop and listen."

She stopped walking. Stopped the chattering as she heard Sam creep up behind her. His voice was calm, sickening-thick with sympathy, something she would normally expect at a funeral. "Hailey's not here, Emily. It's dark outside and we're kind of… trapped together in this house."

She turned to face the younger man and her eyes went wide, the chestnut dilating, her pupils turning darker. Her hands came up, covering her mouth as she harshly gasped. "Sam Winchester?"

Not possible. But he was nodding back to her. She turned again and pointed at Dean. "And you. I remember you. You're his geeky older brother."

Dean still made a face at that, just like it was hitting him fresh for the first time.

Emily looked to Omaha. "What the hell's going on here?"

The curly haired man shifted his feet, shuffling with the discomfort. During his quick debriefing none of Dean's instructions had started, "When Emily wakes up you say this…" And without that direction, he was at a loss of words. It showed in his eyes and she read him immediately.

"We're trying to help you," Sam continued on. "We're working on getting you and Omaha out of here and back home."

"I have to call Troy." She fished in her pockets for her small phone, but came up empty handed.

"Cell phones aren't getting any signals in here. Frequency disturbance."

She huffed at the younger brother. "No, see, Troy will be worried about me. Hailey will wonder where I'm at and Troy would kill me if…" her voice cut-off and her wide eyes glazed over in terrified repulsion. A recent memory seizing her entire being. She let out a horrific sound, not a cry, but an inhumane note that caused all the men surrounding her to flinch. Her arms wrapped around her abdomen and she lurched forward. The heaves started. Her stomach wretched twice and then a third time, barely giving her body time to breathe. God knows when the last time she ate was but the heaves were all dry, no greenish contents spilling onto the floor for all to see.

Sam placed a kind hand on Emily's bent back and attempted to rub warmth into her, giving her what he could. She seemed to take a breath and then another as a sob filled the room. He stopped the rubbing and pressed down, lending her some of his weight as the mother's spine started to shake under his fingers. Her shoulders racked back and forth reminding the younger man of the adventurous fourteen-year-old girl he had once known who laughed so hard her shoulders would quake just as they were now. Polar opposite emotions, same aftermath.

She drew in a deep breath and half-sobbed, half-screamed. **"Hailey!"** Another breath and the same sob-scream. **"Hailey!"** She sunk down to her knees and quickly rolled herself into a protected ball rocking back and forth in rhythmic hysteria, chanting her child's name from numb lips.

The short memories invaded her mind like she was being raped and stabbed and thrown in a ditch. Her walls deep inside were coating with black-slime smothering her white picket-fenced life. She opened her mouth, her own screams hitting the air silently now as she wrapped herself around the essence of what was once her World.

Hailey was dead. She'd seen her be killed. Up close and personal. A hand was on her baby and it was wearing her wedding ring. She waved her tremored hand in front of her eyes, her wedding ring still there on the fourth finger. How was that possible? She remembered Hailey was staring straight at Emily, her sweet smile was gone and she was trying to breath. Why wasn't she breathing? And then big pink lips muted her last word to her: "Mommy."

Emily gained her voice back again and she was screaming, yelling, howling at pitches, which at times were deafening. She lurched back again rage roving over her. Nails came out, scratching at flesh. Fists balled up and flailed into the air, striking a jaw, a bicep. Curse words flew from her mouth. Hailey's name repeated. _"No. No. No."_ Over and over. She fought hard from the men trying to calm her, trying to protect her. Wailing _"Why?"_ to questions that would never be answered. Sweat poured from her body. Tears dripped from her face. She crouched back, gasping for air. Helpless. Wanting. Needing. There wasn't enough air. She needed to get out. Out of this prison cell. She smacked someone trying to pull her back. Shoved another away. Kneed someone in the groin. Bit a hand. She trembled and shook and took another step back until the darkness of the living room blended and spun wildly together as her body collapsed into the black floor of the dining area.

Her brain was fuzzy, not making sense of what was happening, _what_ had happened. The blackness around her was hazing her vision certainly she was being asphyxiated. And she welcomed it.

Her chest rose and fell uncontrolled, her body craving oxygen that didn't come. She took in squawky gasps that exhaled from her body in plumes of tiny smoke clouds above her lips. Her mouth turned up for a second and she closed her eyes and smiled. The clouds vaporized as her breaths evened out.

And without listening to the voices calling to her from the other room, she jumped to her feet, dodging a pellet of rock salt that whizzed past her breast. Her feet moved fast on the dusty floor and she found solace in the waiting arms of her old friend Amanda Brewer. Her ears filled with sharp pain, daggers slicing into her tympanic membrane and the noise that filled her head was unbearable. She knew from previous experience, though that the icy pricks would only last a minute and then all would fall silent. It was wrong, of course, choosing the easy way out. But in here there was no pain. In here she was as good as dead.

And she welcomed that, too.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** See Chapter One

**A/N:** Again, thanks for all the reviews, totally appreciated, making my day!

**Part Four**

"Aw, shit. Ah, Christ. Aw, shit-fucking Christ." Omaha was practically jogging the length of the living room. "Did you guys see that? She just… leapt into Amanda's body! Why would someone do that? Just sacrifice themselves like that?'

Dean had a personal theory on that, too. People usually sacrificed themselves for one reason and one reason only: to stop the hurting. Unfortunately, the sacrifices often times took on a life of their own, creating new pain and hurts that were unimaginable at the time of the selfish act. Unimaginable pain to those around you. Even if it wasn't discussed but only seen and felt.

God, he hurt.

"Is she gonna kill us? Where'd she go?"

Sam grabbed Omaha's arm and brought him to a halt. "She's going to get Brady. If she wants me, they'll come back and try to take me over again."

"You can't fuckin' let her."

Sam shook his head. "They won't. They won't get me."

A quick snag at his watch and Omaha quickly calculated in his head. "2:41. We have four hours left 'til the sun. We just have to wait it out 'til then." He flashed a hopeful smile in Sam's direction. And felt momentarily relief when Sam's mouth quirked up in response.

Omaha broke away from the taller man's grasp and walked over to the odd shaped windows of the living room. His gaze intensified as he looked out of the glass as his left arm slightly raised followed by his right until he was waving fanatically.

Sam's eyebrows lifted. "Dude, what are you doing?"

Omaha flashed him a quick grin. "It's old lady Stinson."

Sam walked over and looked out the window. Across the street sitting in her lazy boy was the very small image of an old woman. Her house was lit up as she sat, watching TV.

"Mrs. Stinson!" Omaha yelled out.

"Jesus, Omaha," Dean piped up from the banister. "She can't hear you."

He waved his arms again.

Sam pointed. "Her lights are on. She can't see you, either."

Omaha shrugged. "Flashlight?"

Sam sighed and directed the young man over a few spaces to the salt circle previously laid out for Emily and instructed him under no circumstances was he to move. Omaha seemed to be good at following directions. He should be safe in the corner, except for what his eyes may see.

Sam handed the dark haired kid a flashlight and let him try the Morse code that he claimed he had learned in Boy Scouts. "Mrs. Stinson was the school nurse." He commented to his old buddy.

Sam glanced back at her miniature form. Her hair looked white from where he stood and she appeared to be shriveling and ancient. Even if he could see her, doubtful she'd be familiar to him. Sam watched as Omaha set his stance, flashlight in his right hand, left hand over the right as he started his short and long beams.

The younger hunter shook his head and met Dean by the staircase. "We got to get him out of here," Sam was saying, trying to figure out a different way out of the house. "Maybe there's a hole somewhere that we can have him crawl out of."

Dean lifted his eyes to him. "We cased both floors. You see any holes?"

"No. But, there's the basement."

He hadn't forgotten. "Yeah, I think that's where they're hiding out."

"Well, let's go down there and get 'em."

The sawed-off crossed over Sam's center and pointed to the corner. "We can't leave him alone with a flashlight, a flask of holy water and salt." Dean hesitated. "And binoculars." His eyes glared over at the large plastic goggles that Omaha had placed near his feet.

"Okay, then, I'll go."

"You're not going. If anyone goes, I go."

"Two against one. They'll kill you - or worse - before you hit the bottom step."

They both knew what the worse was, but Dean looked over at his brother incredulously. "What do you think they're gonna do to you, Sam?"

"I, uh… I don't think they can get me. Couldn't get in me…"

"Yeah, I know because of the tats."

Sam shook his head, his eyes wandering the room, ignoring his brother's hazels drilling into him. "I think I stopped Brady, you know, with my mind."

Dean's mug scrunched up and he scowled towards the younger man. "God, Sam! Not everything that happens is because of you!" He noticed the flick of Omaha's head in their direction and lowered his voice. "You didn't do _anything_ to stop them. You didn't use mind control. We have the tattoos. They protected us. End of story."

"Fine."

"Fine!"

"I just…" Sam took in a deep breath, he lifted his face, locking on the older hunter. Dean always wanted to protect, never wanted to listen. Certainly didn't want to listen to anything that started with 'Sam using his mind to stop a spirit from invading him'. Dean had originally decided upon the tattoos to keep them safe and now Dean was satisfied. He had successfully done his job. Sam glowered back. "You don't even get me, do you?"

"I get you." Dean reached out and grabbed Sam's shirt bringing his kid brother closer. "This is not your goddamn fault. Stop worrying about it. You're gonna give me an ulcer."

Then there were times when Dean knew Sam better than Sam was willing to give him credit for. The hot anger he felt just seconds before melted at the older hunter's words. Sam broke out into a dimply smile. "_You?_ I'm going to give _you_ an ulcer?"

Dean rubbed his hand across his middle. "Yeah, you're making my stomach hurt. Now stop it will, ya?" His voice was gruff and saccharine, licorice sweet. Just like Sam remembered from their childhood. Just like yesterday.

Sam let it roll off his shoulders. He knew it was more than the ink on his chest that had stopped the spirit but he understood his brother's hesitancy. Sometimes people only see what they want. What they need. It's hard to have faith and believe in things intangible.

Sam took a step back, taking control of his own personal space once again. He gave a slight nod. "Dude, you're probably just hungry."

Dean was already nodding back. "Yeah, this sucks. I didn't even bring any jerky with me." Well, that was right up there with trapped in a haunted house, people getting possessed and the possibility of death.

There was a tug on Dean's sleeve and he looked to the side to see Omaha standing beside the brothers, his dark eyes rounded, focused on the dining area.

"Did you get the old bat's attention?" Dean teased.

Omaha shook his head, his eyes cast away and Dean suddenly noticed the curly head kid's close proximity to him. "Man, salt lines!" Dean slapped the back of his head.

Omaha ignored the pat and pointed with his left hand. His mouth gaped open, trying to make words, but only short, sloppy sounds filtered through.

Dean didn't bother looking to see what was there. He already knew and he aptly spun around, bringing the shotgun with him, readying himself to plow the cartridge into Emily's body. She walked staunchly into the living room, smacking a hand up, not giving a second thought to Dean. His body ripped from the floor and flipped over Omaha, smashing into the wall on the opposite side of the room. Stars and possibly stripes cast over his view. His hands were in pain, something was causing them to achingly kink. He glanced his eyes down and saw that she had let him keep his gun this time. She also left him with knarled fingers wrapped around the trigger cramping in arthritic intensity.

One step was all Sam had on her when her other hand came up in a stern, stopping motion. Invisible forces brushed the younger Winchester to the other wall, roughly scorching his cheek against the plaster. She rubbed his body up and down just for fun until she could see the streaks of blood gleaming in the moonlight, his skin tearing apart. His glock she took, jarring it from his hands and it carefully sailed over the last man standing's head and into Emily's hands.

She pointed the barrel at Omaha. "On your knees."

For all the Supernatural reasons why the young man should be afraid, it was a very much human gun that did the trick.

"Fuck, fuck," Omaha started to cry. He folded his hands behind his head and lowered himself to the floor. He glanced up to Emily and begged. "Please, Emily… Mandy, please. Don't fucking kill me."

She smiled at her curly haired classmate and cupped his chin. "You've grown up to have such a potty mouth. Your mother should have taught you better."

"I… I'm sorry. I won't swear, I swear I won't swear. Please, please, _please_, don't kill me, Mandy. Please."

Dean and Sam both bucked against their walls, straining their heads, their hands, stretching their limbs until they thought they'd pop out of sockets. The pleas from the waiter were ravaging, the thought of having to watch his death and not vice versa was too much for the hunters.

"Amanda," Sam tried, helpless to her commands, "take me." One blackened soul traded for one with promise. Take the innocent out of the equation.

She didn't look up, just kept the gun pointed on Omaha. "Cool it. You'll get your chance to bat. Don't cause your brother to get an ulcer."

Dean's eyes slid to Sam's. They were already looking back to him.

Tears were streaming down Omaha's cheeks as he bent forward, still begging for his life. He was being smart. Calling her by her name. He talked about himself, letting her see he was indeed a person. "Emily, please. You know my Mom. She… she would miss me. What would she do? Huh? Emily, don't kill…"

"It's Amanda, Miami, and I'm not going to kill you," she calmly explained to the kneeling man. There was a rustling behind her of what sounded like of a large mouse scampering on the floor. Scratching and clawing becoming more obvious as Amanda's eyes slicked with darkness. Six eyes stared behind her as Brady emerged from the dining room, not ghostly and faded like he had been before, but more solidified, his skin transparent, his eyes taking in color. Hues of brown swirling, his hair changing from light to dark. The Winchesters gawked across the room and astonishingly witnessed as Omaha seemed to be the one fading before their vision. He sucked in a breath, fighting to keep life inside of him, but the closer Brady got to him, the faster he lost. The spirit stopped at nothing, almost breaking out in a sprint as he closed in and engulfed his prey.

Omaha's body twitched oddly, violently as Brady made himself at home, finding fingers and toes again. Bending his host's knees, taking first steps, breathing in a lungful of air, running hands through hair, licking his lips. It was all too good. He had forgotten how it felt to be human. Or at least to be surrounded by human again. He hugged his arms around himself, like wearing a warm winter coat. Forget fur. Human skin was much richer.

He looked to Amanda, who had lowered the gun and was gazing at him passionately. Amorous. "Brady?"

"Love, I'm here." A long arm reached out to her and he placed a once warm palm on her chilled cheek. She leaned into it, her eyes closing. "Is this going to satisfy you?"

Amanda's eyes opened and she tilted her head, examining and scrutinizing the body Brady held. She looked over his shoulder and eyed Sam Winchester pinned to the wall, still fighting to free himself. She sauntered over, watching as his breaths increased, his cheeks puffing out in exhalation. She reached her cold hands out to hold his warm one. She placed his palm along the side of her face and rubbed. Frosty breaths hit his own cheek as she caressed the younger man's neck and smelled.

She turned back to her lover. "I know the consequences, but I still want this one."

And from the dark, through Dean's muffled shouts, Sam could hear his answer to her. "I wanted him, too. I'm sorry I failed back then, Love. But I'll take him. Now."

WWW

Omaha Cantrell lost his dad two years prior to the Winchester's current stroll back into his café. Throat cancer. Smoked one too many. But he left behind a sizeable inheritance, which was split, between his wife and two sons. Omaha took his share and purchased the foreclosed town eatery and swore he wouldn't change one thing about it. The day he took over possession he simply walked in, turned on a light, flipped the closed sign over to open and started cooking. For the first three days he served grilled cheese sandwiches for a dollar to hungry customers until he was able to hire a cook to help him out.

Six months later his older brother, Lincoln, came home to visit from Colorado. He'd used half his inheritance paying off his school loans and the other half went to his retirement. On his way out of town, Lincoln stopped by the restaurant for lunch.

"Omaha," he observed, "this place is a heck of a sight. Why didn't you put some gosh darn new carpet down or take that stupid, old, rotten wagon wheel off the wall?" Lincoln rested his hand on the bolted piece of wood.

Omaha pointed at him from across the room. "Fourth spike, near the center."

Lincoln shook his head and sighed, looking to the old spindle, following it with his fingertips. "Lincoln Cantrell. Villisca's #1 Fucking Reason to Live Here." The older man gawked back at the words and then swiveled his neck around. "Why did you… When did you write this?"

A shrug. "Maybe when I was nine. Or last week, I don't remember."

It was getting late and Lincoln was going to miss his plane if he didn't hit the road. He moved across the worn carpeting slowly, part of him wanting to stay, wanting to linger and see what he was missing out on. He looked up. "Why'd you buy this dump, Omaha?"

The curly haired kid leaned back on his stool and smiled at his sibling, admiring him just as much now as he had growing up with him. "Cuz when I walked in, I knew I was fuckin' home."

WWW

Omaha's body walked over to Sam, his legs slushy and his steps uneven as he achieved destination. The dark eyes were cold, with glints of silver staring back, calculating and deadly. Gone was the pie-loving, foul-mouthed singer who hoped to take down a couple of ghosts that night.

"Sam, Sam, Sam." The voice was uneven and bottomless, stealing away the identity-tag high vocals of its owner. "I could turn you in, you know. But if you're the meat Mandy wants, I'm willing to risk it."

Sam's eyes narrowed at him. "Turn me in?"

"Ask your Daddy." Then in ominous merriment, he continued. "Oh, wait. I forgot. You boys are orphans now." He laughed, reminding the hunter of a mad scientist as frost started departing from bluish lips. "You were my guy when you came here with Mandy ten years ago. You know that?" He turned his head devilishly, observing the boy's fears, seeing past flesh and reading internally. "Right? I tried to take you over, but you tired me out. You gotta a lot of strength inside of you. You're a challenge. And I like challenges."

"Omaha, don't let it fool you." Sam's eyes burned. He tried to will Omaha to surface, give him a sign that he was there. Let himself be seen. Be heard. Sam tried. Let him know he wasn't alone and he could fight.

The deadness peering through the orbs, however, did not give any indication that he was getting through. No walls were breaking down from psychic mental contact. No miracles occurred. Just the everyday sinister Supernatural kind that was the Winchester way of living.

Knots started to ripple under Omaha's skin as the spirit of Brady writhed underneath. A small whimper rumbled out of this mouth and Sam's heart dropped. He was going to lose another one. Another person was going to die because he couldn't do anything to save him. He was the cause. It all started with him.

"Omaha!" Sam shouted out but invisible forces smacked his head back into the wall dizzying his brain and nauseating his stomach. He tried to breathe, tried to warn with words, but they wouldn't come.

"Let him go, you sunuvabitch!" Sam could hear his brother's trademark cursing through thickening air.

The thrusting stopped from Brady, his eyes rolled like slots in a casino spinning through Omaha's sockets. The creature seemed winded and let out a gasping breath. He walked sluggishly to Amanda, still trying out his new sea legs and towered over her, shadowing her tiny silhouette.

It was clear, though, he was not the King of this castle.

"I cannot leave without taking his life." His voice was not filled with remorse or even surprise, it was seeking. Looking for reassurance, support. Making sure the decision was final before he excavated.

Emily raised one shoulder nonchalant, her mouth pulling down in a freakish frown. "S'okay. I never expected any of them to get out alive anyway."

They exchanged affectionate smiles, devoted to their cause. Then Brady began the execution.

The brothers would have much rather exorcised a demon. A large cloud of black smoke exiting an open mouth, a twenty-five percent chance the host would survive. But this was cruel and unusual punishment. Barbaric on some levels.

It was literally like Brady had came home and decided to take off his clothes after a long day at work. Omaha's arms stretched high above his head and then Brady ripped himself from his limbs with inanimate popping sounds. Omaha's fingers slumped followed by his elbow. The ghost's squiggly form moved inside, contorting and removing himself from the waiter's chest and back, suction cups bursting, resonating in the small room. Muscles fell upon one another in a sludgy pile of skin as the top of Omaha's head sunk inward, morphing into itself. Brady's spirit emerged through the dark haired kid's stomach, smoke sizzling from his cold fingernails slicing through connective tissue, linear tendons and smooth muscles. Cutting a beautiful incision from the inside out just large enough to push his head through, followed quickly by his body. It was just as the boys had imagined a C-section would have been like. But this newborn was a grotesque ghastly spirit. And it appeared to be gaining strength and grisly characteristics as it emerged. A sob ruffled the air as it was gorily and bloodily born.

Dean was working overtime, silently assaulting his body. Willing it to move, just his hands enough to get a shot off. He tried to turn and twist, wiggle and churn. The covert forces were too strong, though, and they ferociously bound him to the wall to watch and observe and mourn.

Brady's monstrous apparition was more skeletal, its body seemed to have tissues attached to cartilage dangling from early bones. He bore carnivorous teeth that fit jaggedly in his mouth, almost iridescent to a sharks smile as he grinned to Amanda. Each minute becoming more human in a side-show-freak kind of way.

Amanda wasted no time. "Take him! Now!" She demanded.

Brady abruptly turned towards the younger hunter and hovered over him, dark eyes engaging from bony cavities. He inhaled and started sucking. His wrought iron hands fanned, his fingers spread apart as he betrothed himself to Sam. He surged forward, his chest inflating towards the young man as he cooed his energy out. Grappling for an answer back, he took a step forward, rubbing up against the tall body.

"Come on, young Winchester," he stroked at Sam's forehead. "I'm ready this time. I told your Daddy not to let you come back. I'd snatch you."

The words were made to scare Sam and as he stared back at the oddity, he tried to hide the emotion, but it startled him.

"Didn't tell you, huh? Yeah, your Daddy knew what you were way back then. You never noticed the way he treated you different from your brother? Dean he trusted. You… were like the plague to his family."

Sam's eyes scanned across the open area to Dean. The older man was still struggling against the captors, ignoring the words. He used his body to fight, tiring the spirits of their holds, drain them of their power so he and Sam could use theirs.

"Thing is," the voice forced him to look back, "lots of… _things_… want a piece of you. You got lots to answer for." The apparition's hand stopped stroking the hunter and its fingernail traced an ice-cold burn down his temple, down his cheek to his chest. Crimson followed the path, just like the other side from earlier in the night brought on from Amanda.

Sam winced in pain, the muscles of his neck bulging as the cut passed by his jugular.

He could hear his brother's screams as he turned his face from Brady's hold. He tried to move away, attempted to shove a part, but was only allowed a few inches, his body still wrapped in unseen holds. He tried to close his eyes and wasn't surprised when he felt the resistance. He pushed hard, imagining them shutting, hedging out the dim light. He pictured his lids down, closed firm and secure, hiding the windows to his soul. He blocked out his brother's shouts, ignored Amanda's commands and inwardly concentrated.

Sam was in total darkness. He squeezed his eyes tight as he realized he wasn't only feeling cold frigid hands cupping his chin. He was also feeling his own lashes lightly tickling the upper parts of his cheeks.

"Oh, my God," he whispered to himself.

Fingertips crawled along his jawbone, pulling his face back and a voice cracked through the frigid fog, snuggling up to his ear. "You can't fight me."

Sam swallowed. The words hit like frozen stalactites, burning his lobes.

"Yes, I can." His own voice surprised even him. It was unwavering, easy to talk. The words were warm on his lips, which were turning up into a smile as he realized something very important. He was not afraid. He opened his eyes effortlessly and his neck pivoted to Brady.

There was no discussion from the spirit. Dark eyes sparkled with a flash of silver behind them. The protest of the young man without pleading for his life, without question of his imminent takeover was unfamiliar to the apparition. Sam shook his head as his right arm circled around his body.

"Not now. Not ever." It wasn't just a slogan. It was a mission statement. Gordon wasn't going to kill him. Old Yeller wasn't going to have him. He wasn't about to bow down for some fugly spirit to invade his body to play house with another.

The blast echoed throughout the house, vibrating the staircase and crumbling damaged plaster onto the brothers' heads. Dean slid down the wall and brought the shotgun up again, firing into Brady's estranged body the second time. He clicked back. One more round straight into his temple.

The odd form bent over. He had sucked in the first two bullets one to the stomach, the other to the upper chest. The third pelting his head, slamming it back forcefully, his neck bending from the pressure. The flask of holy water was next as Dean poured it over Brady's limp body. Sam started chanting feverishly in the background as his own 6'4" frame slid down the wall. Misty smoke filled the living area, clouding their sight, cool and breezy against their steamy skin. Sam kept chanting, abolishing the spirit, releasing his anger, accepting his next World.

"Bind it, Sam!"

The words couldn't come fast enough as Sam rushed them out. Amanda shrieked back, hiding in plain sight among the cold vapors. She was doing everything she could do to fight for the appalling fantastical form of her lover. She accepted the war of words with her own chants challenging Sam's, pitching Good against Evil.

Brady's figure agonizingly tossed and turned, rocking and rolling along the filthy floor. He puffed and panted, squirming under the tart and acidic forces that now succumbed him. Until he lay still, his body deteriating quickly before wondrous and sorrowful eyes.

When the spirit stopped writhing it no longer resembled a man. He was an it. It looked like a small boulder against the somber light as it, too, began to shrink. Dust whipped off the hump that was once its back and whisked through the room until all that remained was a mound of ash.

The mist and clouds lifted and the brothers were able to focus and see again. Amanda was long gone from the room, still inhabiting Emily's body. Miserable grief-stricken cries tumbled down and afflicted the small living area. Cackles of horrific laughter followed. They were insane sounds, crazed creations only manifested from deep pain. Even people could understand her suffering.

She was alone.

Sam made it to Omaha's body one second before Dean. Four hands laid upon what was left, turning the sludge over. Sam checked for a heartbeat, placing two fingers over the soft neck. They already knew, but they still checked. Saving was always the goal and the young man was hopeful, even when his brother was not. Miracles were still possible and Sam Winchester was still waiting to witness one.

But not tonight.

Dean took back the flashlight and reached into the curly haired kid's jacket and retrieved the extra flask of holy water and the silver blade. They lifted his body together and moved him delicately back into the salt ring. At least this time he wouldn't be stepping out of it again. Sam draped Omaha's floppy hands over his chest and crossed them gingerly.

Dean felt his head buzz then. Something inside started to splinter and rive. Always trying to forget, trying to hold on to reality better than he was. But that dark haired kid laying like _that_ in the badly lit room with cold leaking from every corner brought on memories Dean would rather leave back in South Dakota. He pushed the lump in his throat down in one dry swallow and his eyes lifted across the dead kid's body to see his very much alive little brother.

Sam was pulling Omaha's jacket around his center. With much of his insides melted to mush the jacket was now about two sizes too big. Sam leaned his weight back onto the heels of his feet and bounced once, his own gaze meeting Dean's. Hollow and distant hazel's greeted the young man.

"What?"

Dean blinked and shook sense back into his head. "Nothing, I just…" He couldn't hide it.

Sam's brows furrowed over the bridge of his nose. He waited. Sometimes Dean needed a few seconds. "What?" he sugared his voice, tried to bait without being obvious, coax without pressuring.

Dean cleared his throat. Lack of sleep and emotion were catching up to the older man. Sam could see what he fought to conceal shining back to him. Omaha's body still and limp, gone from this Earth reminded him… It was the reason why he made the deal in the first place. It was Sam.

"I was…"

Laughter reverberated off the walls of the small house. Cascading down the staircase and through the hallways. Goose-pimpling warm flesh and diverting attention.

Dean reloaded the shotgun. Two cartridges left. Combined with the weapons they still had and the words they always carried they could still coax Amanda out. Still save Emily. And in turn convince her that her own life was still worth saving. Even with the hurt and the truth. If they could convince her maybe then they could convince themselves.

Sam stood in the center of the room trying to make sense of where the snickering was coming from. It rang loud and then louder and was often followed by a sob. She yelled threats and promises – _"You'll pay"_ and _"Never again"_. She howled both their names equally and together. She didn't play favorites. They'd both killed her love. Dynamic Duo that they were. She'd be sure to take them both out. But one had watch the other die. That was what would make it all so worth it for her.

They were already through the dining room and into the dumpster that was once a kitchen. Black and brown hiking boots crushed down on broken wood and laminate. Their flashlights played off shadows and objects transforming them into things that weren't real. The beams from the older hunter's light flashed brilliantly on the glass of the bizarre windows and Sam saw his reflection mirror in the background. It was only for a moment and his brother moved on, taking the shine with him, but Sam's image remained. There had been eyes at one time staring at him by those windows. Pale eyes with light hair and it had chased him and his partner up the stairs.

Sam stopped and turned around.

"Dean." He heard his brother's boots shuffle in the debris. "It's not… not the basement. She's upstairs."

Dean didn't ask his brother how he knew and Sam speculated that it was because he didn't _want_ to know. Sam didn't offer up any explanations; he just kept moving. Dean followed closely behind, apprehensive as his kid brother lead the way up the creepy, steep steps. Sam took them sideways, his glock tight to his chest as the older hunter moved easily up the case with him. Neither spoke as they hit the hallway. Sam knew which way to turn and Dean would follow. Sam took the hard left his brother had taken earlier in the night, swiftly rotating his body into the parent's barren bedroom. Dean was at his back, both keeping their aim high as they circled the room. When she appeared, Dean would take the first shot. And the second. They both knew that going in.

But she didn't show.

Dean stopped spinning and he slowed, turning to face Sam, eyebrows raised, lips pursed. The younger brother had been wrong. Didn't read his natural instinct correct. Gotten signals crossed with memories and mucked it all up with emotions along the way.

Sam's broad shoulders shrugged up and down. He relaxed the gun slightly in his hand.

"_Next."_

The word sliced into the small bedroom sending shivers down the hunters' spines. Breaths hitched into frosty icicles, the cold wrapped around their bodies, the metal under fingertips felt like ice sculptures.

The air suddenly shifted and throbbed. Sam's bangs blew haphazardly off his forehead as a cool wind breezed by slamming the old oak door shut.

"_Forever."_

**A/N:** Thanks for reading and thanks for the reviews! Three more chapters and we'll be all wrapped up!


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** See Chapter One

**A/N:** Again, thanks for all the kind words. It does the body (and soul) good. Next couple of chapters are a bit shorter than my usual. Enjoy…

**Part Five**

Dean pulled again at the door, his right foot over the trim as he yanked back straining his forearms, muscles bounding against the resistance.

"Dean, it's not opening." Sam checked out their small working space.

The temperature was dropping , a frothy film started to coat the interior walls, sliming them with sleet. The one and only window was fogged up, sheltering what light there was from peering in.

Revenge for her lover would be sweet for Amanda, but for now she was content in letting the hunters know she was hollow and wounded. She cackled and cried. Moaned and taunted. But she stayed hidden, masked from scrutinizing eyes. Waiting it out just a little while longer.

"Come on," Dean muttered. His sawed-off was raised, resting on his shoulder with a slight tremble at the barrel. Caused from the cold, of course. "Bitch."

Omaha wasn't there this time to keep his eye on the clock for them but by each brother's watch they accounted they had been in the room for over twenty minutes. It became gradually colder the longer the minutes crept by. Fingers were numbing, Sam's toes no longer had feeling under his warm boots and thick socks. Cheeks were chapped, lips were parched dry. The younger Winchester's knees were about to give out and he found himself sinking down the iceberg of a wall, his ass roughly hitting the wood floor below.

"Sam, stand up," his brother directed. When he didn't get a response, Dean walked the short distance and offered him his hand.

Sam smacked it away, his head rolling loosely around his neck. "Can't. I'm too cold."

Dean stared down at him, clouds releasing in cold pants of air as he breathed. He reached down and tried to forcefully pull the long legs back up.

"You'll stay warmer if you keep moving."

There wasn't any protesting but his brother didn't shove up and try to stand, either. Instead he just pulled tired eyes up in exasperation. "I just need a minute." He paused. Even his eyes were stinging from the cold. "Please."

It was the please that got him. Worked every time. Dean hated to give in, knew it would be better to keep pacing the small area, but Sam looked ill. He tilted his head towards the younger man and took a quaking step. In all honestly, all Dean wanted to do was sit down, too.

"Bitch," Dean said with a smile.

"J-jerk," Sam barely replied.

Dean let out a heavy sigh and abruptly removed his leather coat draping it over his younger brother. Sam's pruning hands pressed it back. "No, Dean…"

"Shut-up." Dean sat down resting hip to hip with the other, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms tightly around himself.

The leather felt warm against Sam and he buried his face into it driving his breaths into the hide and then inhaling it back in. He felt his lungs heat up from the temperature difference and thought he might throw up.

Dean's voice distracted him from the thought. "Banished Brady from the house. From doing any Evil, but we still have to salt and burn the body."

That meant fire. Sam was all for that.

"She's just waiting us out, you know. Get us too cold to fight."

Too cold to move. Too cold to think.

A shoulder nudged into Sam's. "You with me? Elvis still in the building?" Dean chuckled a little and then turned his head as Sam nodded. "Too cold to talk? Never thought I'd see the day you didn't want to talk." He was being playful Sam recognized and it was appreciated. "Why don't you use your mind and turn up the heat in here? Or, you know, open the door."

The fact that Dean had casually acknowledged that Sam had used his psychic abilities to get them down from the wall, even though they hadn't discussed it, made his eyes sting again. He forced a small smile. "D-doesn't work that w-way." He shoved the leather coat towards his older brother, draping part of it his way, giving them both half. He felt something wrench and wring the muscle of his heart as he watched Dean's finger silently grasp the inside of the coat, drawing it down to him. Sam made an unsuccessful attempt to push the jacket back towards Dean but only met the hunter's opposition. Even against Dean's cold skin, Sam was freezing. The harshness of the frost battling the younger man worse then the older.

"It's okay, Sam. We'll share." Always the older brother. Birth order over survival any day.

Dean's younger brother didn't have it in him to argue. It was getting harder for him to breathe and his eye lids were starting to sag with an immeasurable amount of weight. It seemed longer in between opening and closing and he felt his body shift, his air coming from deeper in his gut, from his diaphragm. It was relaxing. Inviting. Sleep.

His eyes flew open when he felt a hard jab to his left side. Dean's elbow.

"Hey! Hey!" Dean yelling. Sam felt like he was in a cave, far below the Earth's ground.

He blinked in response.

"Don't do that."

Sam stared at him, confused. "W-what?"

The room was brighter than it had been. He had a momentary hope that maybe the sun was coming up. Sam turned his head to the right and looked out the window. Still dark, albeit, the glass was now covered with frost from the _inside_ of the glass. His eyes followed back to his brother and stopped as he saw the glow of the flashlight under the now cold leather jacket.

Dean's facial features were lost from the soft beam radiating from the chin up, obscuring in the hollows of his eye sockets. "Don't go to sleep on me, okay?"

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Wuzn't sl'p'ng."

"Dude, you so totally were. You were just starting to snore on my shoulder." He bumped his collarbone into the air that had recently been the pillow for Sam's head to rest on.

Sam hadn't even noticed and weakly pushed back a half a leg from the older man, still resting arm to arm. "I d-don't snore," he croaked out.

There was a jaundiced smile popping out of the illumination next to him. Dean shuffled closer to Sam again, huddling the warmth in. "Not normally you don't. Just in freezing haunted houses."

Oh, yeah. They were still stuck in the old murder house. With the spirit and Emily and what was left of Omaha, feeding the mice, underneath them. Sam's head fell back against the wall behind them, hitting it with a dull thud.

Dean's hand instinctively came up and rubbed at Sam's hair. "Easy. You're gonna put a hole in the wall or your head. We don't need either right now."

Sam let himself sink into the wall, letting it take his body and stick it to the sleet plastered there. "She's gonna kill us," he murmured.

He felt a swift tick of the head next to him. "Not if we kill her first."

Sam cleared his throat. It clogged up right away in the cold air and a thin trail of snot rolled out of his nose. He sniffed and wiped at it with the back of his sleeve and then gathered his hands back together again under the leather. His sleepy eyes drifted, following strangely at shadows in the room caught between day and night. He blinked hard at the image of a man in the corner, dressed in his bed time clothes of long ago. His eyes looked forgotten and tormented. A parent who had lost everything without being able to coddle and protect. And now forced to walk an empty house in search of his treasures. No longer being a man but becoming a legendary tale to haunt a town forever. To make a quick dollar for camera crews when all he wanted was to find his lost children.

Sam blinked again and he was gone.

"Dean, what h-happened b-back here in 19…12?"

"What? The axes?"

Sam nodded.

There was a shrug of the older man's shoulder, but it could have been from a chill. "Mom and Dad were real respectful members of society. Had four kids, a girl and three boys. One night they let their daughter have a sleepover, a pair of sisters from the neighborhood and…" Dean stopped and Sam waited. They weren't in a hotel room or the Impala or a library. They were there. The murder house. It didn't matter if it was five years ago or ninety-six. "Someone walked in and went through the house with an axe. Got 'em all sleeping."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "None… none of 'em w-woke up?"

There was another beat of silence. "From what I remember, one did."

"The f-father?"

Dean's head shook. "Neighborhood girl. Twelve, I think. She fought…" His voice caught and cleared quickly. Sam looked over but the gray still stole his brother from his sight.

"It's my fault."

"Oh, God. What is?"

"Amanda. Her d-death."

"No," Dean was stern so he wouldn't be misunderstood, "It was an accident."

"I remember." Sam announced. His breath exhaled in ice crystals.

A few seconds of quiet passed before his hunting partner cleared his throat again. "Yeah? Tell me, Sam."

_The night of Emily Pruitt's party had been a cool evening, followed by a windy night. It was towards the end of October, not quiet yet Halloween but close enough that the Season itself caused Amanda to be leery about running into the town haunt._

_The young girl hadn't expected to go in. Not really. She always knew she was going to chicken out. She never did finish anything she started. But she also hadn't expected to catch her first crush, her first real boyfriend locking lips with her best friend. Even at fourteen-years-old there were lines that just weren't crossed. Or maybe that's how the lines got started in the first place. _

_It was a moment that was going to make or break each of their relationships. Or kill them, if the circumstances were just right._

_Sam watched as her face fell, her chin quivered and her heart broke as she turned from him and ran into the house. Sam chased after her, the door slipping from his grasp as he ran in, shutting hard behind them. Amanda had stopped immediately, looking into the living room, her head turning up towards the staircase. Sam plowed into her from the back, knocking them both off center. There was a tug and a rip as Amanda reached up to grab his upper arm, trying to steady herself. Long, acrylic nails dug into his bicep. Then she looked up and saw who she was grabbing a hold of. Anger and hurt filled her eyes._

"_Get out!" She shouted, pushing the younger Winchester away as she proceeded forward. _

_Sam stood and watched her disappear into the darkness ahead, his feet flying in the same direction. He ran through the dining area and into the mangled kitchen, dark paneled cupboards dangling from above their heads, old linoleum jutting up from the floor. She slipped once and Sam was there to catch her, bringing her small body up to his broad chest. _

"_Amanda…"_

_Her scream reached near animal tones. Sam's ears speared and spiked from the high frequency, an instant headache throbbing behind his temple. Amanda was pointing behind him and the boy turned cautiously around. _

_Eyes stared back at them, light and concaved. A ghostly configuration with light hair and sunken lips seemed to float endlessly to them. Its mouth opened and it started to suck, its barrel shape chest swooshing in gobs of air. Sam froze. He'd seen many spirits and after-lives in his short hunting life and he was quickly thumbing through the kardex of his mind, searching for a ward that could stop an oncoming attack. _

_Amanda, however, was bolting out of the kitchen door, pulling Sam with her before he had the chance to shoot off one Latin word. He didn't recall stopping at the front door, but they must have because the next thing he remembered was their feet climbing the staircase, getting tangled up with one another. Amanda sobbing as she fell onto Sam, they wouldn't get out, they were locked in. Scaling one another as they made it to the top of the landing and Amanda dashed into the first door she saw. The parent's bedroom. She ran over to the upstairs window and pounded, fists and wrists, forearms and elbows all of them begging to be heard.  
_

"_Emily sees me!" She shouted to Sam and started pounding harder, the glass rattling with her strength. "Emily!"_

_She turned to Sam for help and he watched her body spin around, her back pressing against the pane, her eyes wide with terror._

_Sam's left arm blindly punched up and out using his best sparring moves he'd learned from his brother. "No!" he yelled into the air, feeling his hand fall into something cold, something with substance. _

_The apparition was impressed. It swirled around the boy once, getting a good long look. It floated to him and hovered, aerodynamically mounting his young body. It smelled and tasted him, its light eyes turning to dark and hollow sockets, rolling deliciously back into its head. It squealed in delight. _

_Sam felt an air case over him. A sensation of cold metal hit his stomach and his skin pulled, the creature taking in big gulps of his essence. There were moments of dizzying confusion where Sam wondered where he even was, who was screaming in the background and then the cold unyielding hand rested on the back of his neck._

_Sam shut his eyes tight and willed the ghost away. Blocked its touches. Suppressed its gestures. It wasn't taking him. It wasn't becoming him. It wasn't killing him. Sam butted and rammed his lanky form against the coiled sensation and the changing temperature against his skin. "No." His voice was calm and solid and heat expelled from his lips as he spoke. _

_The phenomena started to lift from his being. Hidden forces collided with an invisible front-line defense. Sam opened his eyes to see the creature staring back at him. Its bony cavities were full in marveled depth, in awe at this prodigy of the dark. There was no question of who he was that ventured into his small house this night. What he was. And the spirit of Brady Marlow was puzzled as to why he was lead here. Uncertain if it was chance or dumb luck or a plan from something bigger than them both. _

_There were no accidents in life… or death._

_The power the boy held was too uncontrolled for one spirit to harness. If he were to gain access to such a golden opportunity, he'd need help. He'd need a plan. He'd need to bargain and strike his own deal._

"_Sam!" Amanda's voice unraveled the connection. She was running again, hauling Sam by the arm through the corridor. There was no where to go on the second level and Sam halted, whip-lashing the girl's arm. She was snared back to him. _

"_Come on!" She screamed._

_Sam looked down the stairs. "No, we've got to get out." The tables turned and he was the one bringing her with him now. He cajoled her down the steps, holding her shirt lightly in his grasp, racing the stairs two at a time. Her small frame tried to keep up with his, her legs stretching the distance with him. She felt the front of her body teeter on the fourth step, correcting itself quickly and then a hard thrust rushed up in the air behind her, slamming her forward and she bulldozed past Sam. Her body tumbled and twirled over the deep steps to land on the dirty wood floor below. _

_Sam remembered her body laying quiet. No longer screaming. She was on her stomach, but she was staring back at him. Her eyes spoke only one thing to him: You are the cause._

A shudder rolled off Dean's upper arms and followed through his body. His chin quaked as his teeth started a restrained click-clack. His expirations were glacial in appearance as he watched Sam slowly finish his memory.

"She broke her neck." Dean furnished the end. "She died on impact." His voice sounded gritty and burly. Rusty scissors cutting through thick burlap. "You were found right next to her. Just knocked out. The kids from the party got the door open."

Sam nodded his eyes glazed, his speech slurred. "I r'memb'r."

He paused a minute, thinking back to that night. He didn't recall if he was pushed down the stairs or if he fell or simply blacked out. He did remember the cold and the ghost of Brady Marlow, sucking part of him away. Part of his memory perhaps or maybe it was Amanda's eyes staring at him without her soul present any longer that made him want to forget.

But he recalled waking up to the kids standing around him. He remembered someone calling the police and the police calling his Dad. Dean had come to retrieve him instead. He had taken him to the waiting Impala, helped him in the seat. He had bent in through the open door and patted his shoulder. _"Relax,"_ he ordered gently. Dad would have kicked his ass, but Dean… Dean had been gentle.

Sam scooted, shifting his weight under him. He missed the warm distinct comfort provided only by the old Chevy's worn leather seats. He wanted to go home.

"Yeah, well, I guess that fall created a cold hearted bitch, huh? Ultimate Ice Queen. Guess we pissed her off." Dean's muscles bunched and bounced against Sam's arms. "I think she's gonna freeze us to death, man." Hands cupped around his face and the older brother breathed tepid air into them, rubbing fiercely. "Got to stay warm." He glanced around, looking for any sign that she had returned to fight. Finish them off. "I'm glad you remembered, though. And… thanks for telling me." He waited and then added, "You know, it wasn't your fault." As the quiet engulfed him, it seized his aorta and twisted. Heart-strings plucking against one another playing out of tune as he realized that he had been the only one talking. "Sam?" Nothing. Dean leaned over his little brother and tapped his cheek sharply, each smack leaving behind marks from his fingertips across the taught sheath. Sam's eyes fluttered a few times, but remained closed.

Dean wasn't so cold anymore.

He threw the leather jacket over his brother again, tucking it in at the sides of his arms, scrunching it under his chin, wrapping him like a Christmas present. Or swaddling him like a new born baby. He'd had real-life experience at both the activities, but only one did he pride himself at being truly good at.

"Sam, wake up." Dean shook him once and then intensified his efforts when he didn't get an answer. The thought of laying him down and starting CPR crossed his mind when Sam's eyes popped open, his body gasping in a large overdue breath.

"That's it, Sammy. That's it." Dean pulled in his younger brother and let him prop up against him, his right arm encircling behind the big kid's upper back. "It's okay." Dean shut his eyes a few seconds and pressed his cheek onto Sam's hair, pushing back his nerves, forgetting the cold, remembering the life breathing near him. The life needing him. And him needing the life. "I'm… I'm gonna get you outta here."

It was a fool's promise. They had spent the first twenty minutes after being trapped in the room searching for a way out, shooting Sam's glock, then Dean's Colt, saying rituals, trying to kick holes in the walls. Dean attempted to anger Amanda calling her every name he knew – then he made up a few out of pure frustration. Nothing had worked and now his anger and frustration had sickeningly morphed to desperation.

"C-can't st-stay… wake." Sam whispered.

Dean turned towards him. "Sure you can, man. Just keep your eyes open and…"

"Can't."

Dean rubbed his hand up and down Sam's shoulder. He reached his left hand across and violently started to massage the younger man's chest, the material of his shirt underneath scratching and scraping with the friction. Sam's face grimaced in response.

Dean continued for a minute or two, his own muscles stiffening from their meat-locker prison cell. He stopped the rubbing and started patting, keeping time with the music playing inside his head.

"_Hot blooded, check it and see. I got a fever of a hundred and three…" _

The head rolled on his shoulder. "Not F-F-F-Foreigner."

Dean smiled. "Okay, smart ass. You chose."

Sam's pause was long and Dean thought for a minute that he had fallen back into a stale slumber. "You… use to sing. W-when I was… lil…can't th…think of… name."

The body next to him trembled again and then the muscles resting under his arms started to twitch. Not a good sign and Dean rubbed up and down vigorously, watching his little brother from above as his eyes slid shut, taking with them the light that Dean needed to get him through the rest of the night.

It hit Dean then that they weren't getting out and Sam was going to die. Amanda was going to win. She was going to send him into hypothermia and his blood was going to seize and desist from the inside out. Then she would kill Dean. Alone and painful. No more hoping that his sacrifice would be present when Dean's time was up. She was going to rob each and every single second they had left. And take the one and only thing Dean loved from him.

"You sure you can't use your Jedi-mind trick and get us out of here, little brother?" His voice cracked like he was joking. He tried to play it off.

There was a shake next to him, but it was from Sam's entire body, not just his head. "You.. believe I h-have… the –f-force?" he joked back.

Star Wars had always been their favorite movie. Growing up and even today as the big kids that they were inside. Held up in dumpy motel rooms or rented houses, they always ate popcorn and drank soda when any one of the trilogy was on. Sure, they'd caught the new ones, too, but screw them. Compared to the originals, nothing could stand up to the classics. So, it was tradition that the boys always had the same classic fight before the movie started. Who was going to be Hans Solo? Of course, Dean won. It was a given. He was older, move experienced, a ladies man and just had better bone structure. Sam would sulk, having to take the role of the novice Luke, always wanting to be more like his brother. Even if it was in a land created by Hollywood. It was something they shared between each other from their childhood. They got some of their best sentimental moments from those movies.

"I believe..." Dean stopped as the shivers and shudders from beside him vibrated his own body. He looked down and lost part of himself for a moment. His brother was staring back, eyes locked, a young Skywalker fading fast. "I believe in you, Sam."

Long eyelashes fluttered and blinked back to him. His mouth moved, but no sound squawked out. Blue lines penciled around the dry pale pink that made up his lips. His cheeks were ashen, different shades of gray and purple dressing his skin. But his eyes were Sam and they were gazing, enchanting, reaching.

"_It's getting to the point where I'm no fun anymore." _Dean's sing-song voice was quiet, but that was okay. There was only one person present to hear._ "I am sorry. Sometimes it hurts so badly I must cry out loud…"_ His singing dropped off for a moment. He felt his chest hitch, his eyes slid away from his brother and his own dimpled chin trembled.

"_I am… lonely,"_ Sam urged him on breathlessly.

The room was seeping of ice and frost, Dean's arm behind his brother was pained, numbed and frozen. His eyes lifted to meet Sam's again. _"I am yours, you are mine. You are what you are. And you make it…" _his voice broke and he bit his lip.

"_Hard,"_ they sang off-key in unison. Eyes swimming, hearts hammering. Using more than touch while they sat in the dark.

And it was hard. Not being able to say what you wanted, too stubborn to let it go. Having to sing words in a song instead of speaking them with your own voice. Keeping masks in check and emotions at bay. Letting Heaven and Hell fall on your shoulders and tug at your feet. Holding the World in the palm of your hand. Cradling your dying brother in your arms, watching him take his last breaths. Feeling the cold sizzle from his body as the gleam on his sclera turned lack-luster. Dean held the tears back, but they danced on his brims anyway.

"D'n?"

He nodded back.

"Be…o-okay?"

Another nod.

"It's T-Tuesday."

Sam shut his eyes and his chest rose unevenly. Dean brought him closer still, feeling the broken air hit his neck, cold and wet. He clutched Sam's jacket from behind in fists of despair. He'd lost. His head fell, resting on the back of Sam's stiff neck and he let the tears fall, cool and warm mixing and melting, running down the nape of his brother's neck.

Sam seemed to have stilled pressed against the older hunter. His body was firm and motionless as Dean pulled back. Sam had fought. He wasn't going to let his body be used as transportation for the non-living. He wasn't going to give in and take his throne to lead a demon army. He killed what was unnatural. Saved lives and rescued hundreds. He'd rescued his father. Rescued his brother. He'd fought himself. Rather than taking the easy road or the road of a married lawyer, he stayed and fought. He shook-off rumors and resisted becoming something other than himself. He wasn't going to become what he hunted. He'd rather die.

He rescued himself.

Dean looked down at the pasty skin, the bluing lips, the lashes matted on cheeks that once smiled. He adjusted his grip with his right hand, placing a firm hold behind his brother's head and used his left to lay two fingers aside his neck. Waiting for the lub-dub sensation underneath. Waiting for his miracle. Because Sam believed in miracles and Dean believed in Sam.

Her face appeared to his left, bright and shiny, smiling wickedly. Her dishwater blond hair blew on its own, showing Dean her perfect face. Flawless in the changing light, just starting to gleam in through the window. Dawn was coming. It had never mattered if the sun came up, though. Dean knew that. It was just easier to see his brother in front of him. Keep him safe. Protect him. She laughed once and then pulled her mouth into a smirk.

She'd got what she wanted after all.

"You… bitch," Dean snarled, icicles stretching from his mouth. His arms wrapped tighter, sheltering Sam's body from her hideousness. She wouldn't do any further harm to him.

"Jerk," she quipped back.

Dean lunged for her throat, his hands grappling at the strands of her hair as she pulled easily out of his range. She swiveled her body in a complete circle, her forearms crossing one another as she snapped her fingers. The force that ripped between Dean and Sam pulled at the two, picking each of Dean's fingers from his brother, removing his left arm and then the right.

Dean tried to resist, tried to will his own mind into overdrive. Hold Sam, not let go, not give him up to the bad guy. He watched as his grip was completely removed and his younger brother's body slumped onto the frosted wall, his cheek rubbing dried blood against it as his weight pulled his torso down.

"**Sam!"** Dean gutted, fished out the only word that came to mind. The only one that ever mattered.

Amanda's shifting form flashed out of Dean's periphery and she moved swiftly, methodically, like a hunter. She had thought things through. Take down one prey and would play with the remaining. Leftovers were always better the next day.

"Take one more look, Elmer Fudd. It'll be your last." She released the holds on Dean's hands and let him grab for Sam one last time. He reached down and touched the younger man's face.

"Come on Sammy. Wake up. Come on." He pushed back his bangs and rested a chilly hand on his cherry tomato cheeks.

Dean blinked. There was no movement from the his brother as the older man noticed the ice defrosting behind his head, dripping down the walls. He turned his wrist in towards Sam's nostrils and felt the heat escape in short breaths, blowing the small hairs on Dean's forearms.

Something inside of Sam Winchester had ignited.

**Playlist:**

_Hot Blooded_ from Foreigner

_Suite: Judy Blue Eyes_ from Crosby, Stills and Nash


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** See Part One

**Part Six**

"Hunter," Amanda's voice was crisp and challenging, "it's your turn now."

Dean's hands were no longer his as they pulled away from Sam. His body moved against his will quickly and harshly to the opposite wall. He was pinned again, head crumpled into unforgiving plaster, splayed with his feet spread Eagle. Awaiting his persecution.

Amanda liked this position. Her quarry between a wall and a hard place. Her form able to move swiftly about. Taunt him. Make him afraid. Feel her power. It was really quite satisfying for her.

Satisfaction was key to the game she was playing. She wouldn't have wanted to play so badly but these hunters coming in with their guns and their banishing spells. Well, in all honesty, the Winchesters had broken her heart. One of them had done it twice now. It wasn't exactly working out the way she and Brady had originally planned.

She glanced over at Sam's stilled body and started walking to him.

"Come over here and finish me off, Bitch!" Dean shouted to her, trying to distract her from looking too close. Noticing that his brother was warm and breathing, with a pulse, and she hadn't quite done the younger man in yet.

She kept walking, though, and barely registered Dean was there. "I don't want to finish you off, dumb ass."

Dean stared at her, his mouth gaping open. She _didn't_ want to kill him? Then what was she planning to do? He watched as she bent down in front of Sam and placed her hand over his heart. Dean flinched. He bucked and stirred, trying to stop her from…

Amanda's right hand balled up into a tight fist and Dean watched as she pulled back and sucker punched his little brother across the jaw. Sam slid along the wall and slumped over, his long body stretching across the floor. Nothing moved, he didn't even cringe. Maybe Dean had read the signals wrong.

"Come on, Sam," she crooned, following his upper body as he hit the wood underneath. "I just wanna talk. Open those pretty eyes for me. I know you're still in there. Can't get rid of you that easy."

The older brother cursed from across the room as he saw Sam push up from his weedy palms, his elbows locking as he sat up. The temperature in the room was slowly starting to warm, the frost from the window cleansing away the years of caked in grime and the walls were damp from melted ice. Dean could feel his body soak in the cold wetness through his clothes. His hair started to droop into soggy ringlets plinking tiny droplets on his shoulder blades.

Pinned high above the ground, the older Winchester thought Sam looked like a mess. His hair was straggly and matted from moisture and dirt. His clothes were wadded and wrinkled, but his eyes… his eyes were slit open. They looked removed and bleak as he sat accepting the challenging gaze from Amanda. The light shining in from the glass brightened the room up, shadowing the figures to the big brother. Dean could see Sam give off a light glow next to the deadened girl. He felt the need, felt the urge to act. Dean needed to get him out of the house now.

"What do you want?" There was a moment of hesitation as Sam sat more upright. He winced as his throat felt like it was rubbing against shards of broken glass.

"I already told you." Amanda didn't seem to notice the young man's discomfort, certainly didn't care. "I want some answers and then I'm going to take."

"Revenge, Sam! She wants revenge!"

Amanda's arms fell loosely between her crouched legs as her face scowled towards Dean. "If you don't shut the fuck up, I will put a zipper where your mouth is."

A quick scene from the movie _Beetlejuice_ flashed in Dean's mind and he swore under his breath.

"What answers?" Sam seemed to be a willing participant in her reindeer games.

The woman simmered down then, resting back onto her hind legs, bouncing with anticipation. It had been a long time coming for her, getting answers to questions that were still important to a fourteen-year-old girl. She sighed, Emily's chest heaving with Amanda's air. "What was it about her that night?"

Sam knew he had to be careful. He was dealing with a scorned young girl who had used the years since she crossed over to her new life to build up animosity. The confusion and hurt had turned her into a vengeful spirit, inhabiting the body of someone she'd most likely enjoy tearing apart.

Sam played it vague. "The whole night was… unexpected."

"You didn't plan anything?"

He shook his head. "No. Not anything with Emily."

"But you liked her, you know, before the party?"

Sam remembered the way her shoulders would shake when she laughed. She was always laughing. Especially when she was being sweet to him. "I liked her as a friend."

"So," her voice turned sinister and Sam didn't miss the change, "it had nothing to do with, say… cup size?"

Oh, she'd been thinking about this for a while. Ten years, to be exact. And still it was adolescent and immature. Everything that was important back in the busy lives of high-schoolers.

"Cup size?"

Amanda reached out, grabbing the man's hands and placing them on Emily's breasts, holding them tight there. She stared him down. "I mean, cup size."

Sam half snorted to himself. "Uh, no, Mandy. I swear. It didn't have anything to do with you." He paused a minute as she kept his hands there. "No part of you. It was just me. It was bad timing. I'm sorry that it happened."

Which wasn't a lie.

She dropped his hands and let him retract them back to himself. He looked up at her, she seemed to be accepting his response or considering it. He cleared his throat. "Why don't you, just let go? Let Emily go."

Her eyes flicked a sliver glint and then turned dark again. "No. I've come this far. I'm going all the way. You don't even know what to do, do you Sammy?"

Sam glared.

"With all that rage inside of you? Don't know how to turn it on and turn it off? How to… control it? What's good at being a Superhero if you aren't smart enough to figure out the goddamn powers?" She turned Sam's head towards her and smiled. "But, for me, that's a benefit."

Sam pulled back from her grasp and looked out the window, watching the dark winter sky lighten against the clouds and change to blue. It was going to be a beautiful day.

"Why Hailey?" came the question from across the room.

Both heads turned towards Dean. Amanda stood up and paced the room. She stopped by the hunter and shook her head at him. "Because she was in the way. I had to get rid of everything that mattered to Emily to _be_ Emily. No good mother would leave her child. Even mothers who die abandon their children. Satan is clever that way." She glared at Dean after saying that, like she was insulting his own mother. Like he felt a pain that Sam didn't, holding his mother sacred and glorious to a part of him Sam never had the chance to find. But Dean didn't return her the gratification. It was part of her sport and Dean wasn't on the game board with her.

"A three-year-old, though?" Dean was accusing, throwing down the gavel, asking the jurors to find her guilty and sentence her to death. "You turned into a murderer, Amanda."

Her eyes slimed darker and she batted them towards the trapped man. "Look around, Deano. See any white lights twinkling down? See the hand of God coming to claim me?" Her arms spread apart, waiting for the lightening to strike. "I'm in Hell. You think dragging that little brat out of the car and getting her in here so I could…" she looked down at Emily's hand. "Believe me, life's overrated. I gave her a better turn than anyone ever gave me."

She twirled from the older brother, tiring of him and had walked back to the younger man who was more fun. Of course, it could have been that she was just ready to put it to an end and win already. "Sam," she pranced in front of his feet, "what was the name of that song we sang at the talent show?"

Hazel eyes met hers and Sam shrank back against the wall. There were miles of depth staring down at him, wounds exposed on the surface of dark brown that shook his World.

He remembered the small stage and the spotlights glaring down. Amanda was wearing a white top with a pink skirt, cut too short for her age and she held his hand to calm his nerves. Her voice was impeccable compared to Sam's puberty-stricken attempts at being a tenor, but sometimes a baritone.

"_Iko Iko,"_ Sam replied quietly.

She turned and clapped her hands together, the small crack bouncing off the walls of the bedroom. "That's right! That's it!" She smiled down at the hunter. "How did that go?"

Sam stole a look over to his brother. He watched Dean struggle against the plaster that embedded him. Watched as Dean's own eyes shifted down, not meeting his brother's. There was only one way the older man knew how to deal with insanity. And it wasn't by chitchatting. He tried to loosen the force.

"Don't worry about him," Amanda advised, forcing Sam's head to turn back to her. She pushed her hand towards Dean and the wall started caving again, the unseen pushing covert weight on the man's stomach and chest, crushing him into the wall. Dean's neck restricted from the contact, pulling his shoulders and legs from the splintering wood and rusty nails snagging at his skin. He was cocooned in pain and let out a low groan.

"Please," Sam started.

"How did it go?" Amanda crouched back down to be equal with the young man. Eye level.

Sam licked his lips. They had sang it together. He remembered the melody a little. He tried to hum it back to her but could only make it through one line. She hummed back the second and waited for him to follow with the third. He looked up to her and shook his head.

"Oh," she sounded flat, "I'm shocked you don't remember." She came down on all fours and started a slow crawl towards him. She whisked her head in Dean's direction and put her hand up, stopping the ultimate squashing of his body. "Pay attention, Fonzie. Chachi's gonna sing for us."

Dean's eyes opened and he peered out through dust and plaster falling from his hair. He blinked numerously as Amanda's body snaked the rest of the way to his brother. Sam pressed his face away from her, turning his head to the right, keeping his eyes away from everyone in the room. No one to see his repulsion or fear. Amanda was humming, her voice trilling on notes as she got closer to the boy she once held hands with on stage. Sam felt her hands wrap around his ankles and then climb up his legs to his thighs. She groped the inner denim with her fingers and lingered for a moment before rising them to his abdomen. Her voice cooed heavy and husky as her body rocked towards him and away.

"_My Grandma and your Grandma, sitting by the fire."_ She ran her fingers up to Sam's chest and clawed down his muscles with acrylic fingernails. _"My Grandma said to your Grandma…"_ The nails ran up his collarbone, resting on his biceps and she dug in. _"I'm gonna set your Mom on fire."_

Twin sets of Winchester eyes fell upon the wretched spirit. Both hazels burning with anger, loathing and hatred. The eyes were the same. No doubt about it. They were Mary's sons.

Dean felt his heart pound, thumping in his brain, the blood rushing from his head. Sam didn't dare look towards him, his own eyes big as saucers. He swallowed hard, turning away to stare at the window. "That's not how it goes. It's… flag."

Amanda straddled his upper legs and brought her knees in tight, cinching her body to Sam's, meshing him to her. Cold hands traveled up to his neck and she strummed her fingers on his cheeks. _"Look at your Dean all dressed in red…"_ Sam veered his head and glared at her.

_No_, he willed. He felt a heat radiate from the other side of the room.

"_Iko Iko an dey."_

"Shut-up," Sam pleaded.

Amanda reached her arms around Sam's neck and pressed her nose to his. _"I betcha five dollars..."_

He could hear Dean's grunting. He listened to him holding his breath and trying to push himself unsuccessfully out of the wall, only to have his body slam back in. "Sam…"

"Please, stop. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Don't…"

"…_he can kill you dead."_

"Amanda."

"_Chakko mo fi-na-ney."_

Amanda's legs pushed her small body off of Sam's lap and she tiptoed over the younger man. She glided passed him and kept her sights straight ahead. Sam started to speak, but her fingers delicately laid over Emily's lips and hushed him as she let a giggle escape.

"Truth or dare," she gibed.

Dean's eyes slid to Sam's. The younger man shook his head impotently to his brother.

"Sam…" Dean's voice was shaky as Amanda approached.

Sam tried to will himself to move from the wall. Attempted to control his surroundings, focusing on the synapses firing in his brain.

Amanda stopped midway between the boys and smiled She closed her eyes as her chin dipped to her chest and she exited Emily's body. It wasn't the horrifying theatrics as when Brady had departed from Omaha. She just stepped out of the young mother's figure and let her drop lifelessly to the ground. Emily's hands pointed together as she fell in a ball, curled up within herself looking like she was sweetly taking a well deserved nap.

Amanda turned towards Dean. The experienced hunter's eyes widened in uncanny alarm. "No. No fucking way," he gritted through his teeth. His eyes darted from Amanda to Emily to Sam.

"Dean!" Sam screamed out. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. Visioning control. Imagining himself lifting from powers beyond him.

Dean was frantically trying to untangle himself from Amanda's holds. Pushing and stretching his body free, but the faster she approached him the more limp he seemed to become.

She cuddled up in front of him, vulgarly touching and handsomely violating. The fourteen-year-old spirit hovered dangerously over his tight-lipped mouth. Dean couldn't react, he could only watch. In the afterlife, she was still a child but she was ravenous. Hungry for her vengeance.

"Don't be afraid, Dean!" He could hear his brother scream out again and again. It was an odd thing for Sam to shout and Dean tried to find him over the apparition. If he could make a connection, he could ground himself. This was Amanda's funhouse, though and she blocked his view of the younger man.

"She wants you afraid!" Sam warned.

Dean was already there. Amanda pushed ice-cold milky hands on his jawbone and pulled down. She hit his body like frost scorched metal, freezing his insides. He felt it first in his stomach, the churning and the digesting. His stomach acid mixing and stirring with things not of this Earth. The sensation then shot out through all four of his limbs. The arctic stiffened his joints, seeping into his bones. Making them hers to shove away from the wall. The phenomena wrapped up into his chest, twisting and kneading his heart straight up through his throat and filling his head. It felt full, fuzzy and the noise that screeched was deafening to his hearing. Dean's hands whipped up to protect his pain filled ears but it was Amanda who forced him to let them go.

She spoke to him like a child would speak, using simple words. Commands. It was easier that way. It took all of Dean's energy to focus on moving his legs when she ordered him to walk. There were distant muffles from outside his body. He could hear her talking to someone and then a deeper voice was answering. He opened his eyes but he was still engulfed in the dark.

"_Right."_

Dean moved to the right and glanced down at something slumped on the floor. He felt a sudden burst of anger inside him as he stepped unwilling to the right to avoid the lump. Until she spoke to him again.

"_Walk."_

He did and he tried to see the mound that was fading from his sight but it was gone and the dark consumed him more. It was almost impossible to see anything from where he was. Back of the class, under the covers, the lights off, alone in the jungle. It was unfamiliar. An unpleasant place to be and Dean couldn't decipher which way was up and which was down.

"_Stop."_

Dean halted and waited. More muffled talking. The deeper voice was getting louder. It was a heated conversation and he strained to hear what was being said.

"_Reach."_

Reach? His arms were pulling forward and his fingers splayed, feeling something thick between them. Fit pretty good, really. Like it was born to be there. Through the fuzz, he thought he recognized a familiar word.

"_Squeeze."_

Oh, yeah, that must have been it.

And Dean gripped his hands in a fierce strong-hold and squeezed.

www

"Dean!" Sam closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. If he could just focus hard enough, he could will himself off the wall. He could help Dean. Help Emily. Race in like Mighty Mouse and save the day.

He heard the grunts and grumbles from Dean as Amanda hovered his body, looking for a portal inside.

"Don't be afraid, Dean!" It sounded funny coming out of Sam, it was honestly a last ditch effort. But one thing he learned from his short time with Brady was he had wanted to find the fear in Sam. The fear was the door in. "She wants you afraid!"

_Don't let it get you, like it nearly got me. _He could fight Amanda. But first he had to fight himself. And he had to let the fear go.

_Fear._

But it was too late. Sam watched helplessly as Dean came loose from the wall, his hazel eyes turning bright as they swept the room like they were seeing it for the first time. He took wobbly steps forward, similar to Omaha's silly dance just hours before. He stepped clumsily to the right, just missing Emily's quiet body, curiously looking down at her and then he kept moving. Advancing forward to Sam.

"Can't save them all, Sam." Amanda's words spoke to him through Dean's voice.

It sent a shiver down the young Winchester's spine. Sam did his best to ignore it. _Not Dean. Not Dean._ "I can try." He reassured himself putting his best Dean-mask on. He was, after all, a Hunter of Evil and he'd been trained to save by the best of men.

"You know, this is one way you could save Dean from Hell's Gates." She laughed. "Won't actually be Dean doing the talking, but I'd look like him. Smell like him. What do you think?"

Sam smiled at her. She wanted to play but little girls were always sore losers. Besides, she looked nothing like his brother with those dull monstrous orbs. "Dean doesn't go for flat chested teenagers, Mandy. Never did do it for him."

She stopped cold in front of Sam and turned his brother's face to meet him. His shoulders squared next followed by the rest of his wrangling body. Dean turned to greet his brother with a plastic smile, glass eyes and a strong hand.

"Dean, don't. It's me. It's Sam."

And Dean squeezed.

"_Yes."_

The voice was encouraging. It was a delicate sound, humming from his insides. He was doing his job. It was pretty simple, really. Standing there with his hands gripped around the device.

"_Good."_

She was pleased. The voice that was high and fetching. It made him feel good. Finally doing a job that was easy _and_ he was getting praised. That never happened.

There was the lower muffled voice again. It wasn't loud as it had been before. Much softer. Pleading. Sad, even.

"_Harder."_

Dean intensified his hold, his fingers swaddling tighter feeling softness matched with a fragile bony surface.

Things began to quiet around him. The baritone voice almost completely halted. There were cushioned sounds, mostly breaths as hot air blew on his skin.

"_Hit him."_

www

"Dean," Sam started as his brother's hands wrapped around his neck, "Dean, don't. She's got you, man. Fight…" Sam was forced to stop as his brother's grip grew stronger. His neck struggled against the assault, veins bulging, bones elongating, his throat gasping for air.

"Dean…" Sam kicked his legs, butting them on the wall, his feet sliding down. His sight blurred and panic was setting in. He guppied in a shallow breath. "Come on." Helplessness set in as fear and pain rushed him.

He was begging for his life. White lights and stars sparkled across his field of vision. He squeezed his eyes shut as they watered, opening as the tears fell involuntarily. His fight was wasting away, his neck felt like it was on fire burning from the cold fingers. He could smell blood and wondered briefly where it was coming from.

Dean's right hand released and for a quick second Sam's needs and hopes soared. He'd gotten through to his brother. They would be okay, still time to save the day. But the second skimmed over and all the hope he held was perfectly smashed away from a fast blow to his cheek. Dean's fist raised again and Sam took another slug across his eye. Blood pooled where the tears had just been and he felt the painful swell almost immediately.

"Dean." It was said louder, raspy and with raw need. It was his only defense. The name of his protector. The name he called so many times and without hesitation or doubt had always been answered.

Another fist slammed into the side of his face. Sam swore his cheekbone cracked, small bones fracturing into scattered pieces under his skin.

They came skillfully, like they were driven by a machine and without rhyme or reason. One to the gut, followed by a sharp uppercut, another to the eye and then back to the stomach. Sam's feet stopped pushing against the wall, he stopped sliding and gave himself to gravity. Arrested himself to Dean's mercy. He wanted to fall, wished to Hell he could collapse in a mindless mound of slop onto the cold hard floor. That wasn't Amanda's next move, though, and she was the only one left playing the game.

The Winchesters had lost.

www

Dean was lost in the dark. His senses were betraying and deterring him. He tried to push past the fact that he wasn't seeing and tried to focus on his hearing. When that failed, he tried smelling. They were all double-crossing him. Inside the coolness that blanketed him had forgotten how to touch. He didn't remember what taste was. He only knew that he was to obey and when he did he was rewarded. He was duped.

"_Grab."_

His right hand released its fists and clenches and he returned to the squeezing. It was a bit monotonous, the hitting at least gave him something to do.

"_Good." _

He listened to the vibration of the voice. It was definitely female. And he was still pleasing her.

Then he heard the muffle of the baritone. It was desperate.

_Huh._

It was a voice. It made his chest rumble when it spoke and something jarred the hidden hunter inside of him. He had a voice, too.

"_Break it."_

The female. It was such a luscious sound that spoke to him. So hard to deny her. So difficult not to give in. And the giving in felt so good. It was the easiest choice he could have made.

His hands pressed, thumbs connecting at the tips and he felt them cave in to the softness it surrounded. There was a pulsing sensation under them. It had a slow beat that tickled a memory.

_Remember what we've said, and done, and felt about each other._

_Oh, babe, have mercy._

Then the beat was gone and so was the memory.

www

Dean had wailed on him. Sam couldn't open his left eye or maybe he couldn't shut it. He honestly wasn't sure. It was bludgeoned and too hard to tell what condition it really was in. The poundings had stopped and he turned his head again to look into the darkened hazels that held his brother's face.

Sam looked for something he could recognize.

_Dean, always with the scissors._

Dean had brought him back into this way of living and then brought him back to life.

_Don't get mad at me. Don't you do that. I had to. I had to look out for you._

He'd saved Sam and Sam had to save Dean.

_Thing is, I don't want to die. I don't want to go to Hell._

"Help me, Dean." Sam met his stare with what he hoped was the window to his brother. They were just on the road back. Back to being brothers. Back to being friends. So much work to do.

Sam willed Dean to surface. Concentrated on his brother, silently spoke promises he'd made, gave thanks for what Dean had done for him. He attempted to find his Dean, his older brother, the man who gave up everything so his brother could breathe again and…

"Sam, don't take this personally," Amanda's eyes sparkled from beyond. "But Dean, he was never strong enough to fight. Not even for you."

_Dean's your weakness. The bad guys know it, too. It's gonna be the death of you, Sam. Sometimes you just gotta let people go._

Sam struggled weakly under the invisible holds. Dean wasn't his weakness. He was his strength. And Dean had always been stronger, especially where Sam was involved.

The pressure returned and Sam was battling blindness. It was relentless, the grasp strong and breathtaking. His head filled with a loud buzzing sound, mocking him. The frantic and panic from before was gone and the fading of Sam Winchester was in full swing. He felt Dean's thumbs press in and push hard, his windpipe crushing, no air exchange taking place. His lungs burned and jumped when the oxygen didn't come. His heart slowed and boomed, the beats strumming their last chords.

_Tearing yourself away from now you are free_

_And I am crying_

His body convulsed violently against the broken plaster and then stilled. It was a thin line the brothers walked between the living and the dead. It was also the last thing Sam caught a glimpse of before he surrendered himself. His living brother taken over by the dead and the sad man in the corner, seeming to look at Sam with wondering eyes. It had to been his mind playing tricks on him, his brain's last ditch efforts to hold on to reality. A figment of his imagination.

The dark behind the younger brother's lids spun into shades of charcoal and gray. No light was allowed in here anymore. Sam was always destined to the dark and it was reaching up with shadowed fingers to claim its royalty.

Ten years ago when Brady Marlow met the young hunter, future contender for the lead role of an underground army, he knew if he was to gain what he truly wanted all he needed was to hand over a lottery ticket. Important information, of course, that he shared with the love of his afterlife. Now being the sole survivor of the dead residents of the old murder house, Amanda was more than ready to cash in her chips.

The last words spoken before a beloved one dies is typically what those who are still living keep with them. Good or bad. Dean wasn't privy to the pleas from his brother as he choked him to death by his unmanned hands. His ears didn't hear him say his name repeatedly in agony. But just before the last couple lub dubs of Sam's heart, Dean did hear a different voice inside his head. It wasn't luscious or sweet or delicate like the female speaker. It was gravelly and abrasive and loving.

"I believe in you, too, Dean."

**Playlist: **_Iko Iko _from the Dixie Cups

Excerpts from the song _Suite: Judy Blue Eyes_ from Crosby, Stills, and Nash

**A/N:** Thanks to everyone for your awesome words! One more chapter to go and we'll wrap up this old haunt.

By the way, there are a few versions of the song _Iko Iko_. The correct lyrics are:

_My Grandma and your Grandma, sitting by the fire_

_My Grandma said to your Grandma, I'm gonna set your flag on fire._

_Look at your King all dressed in red, _

_Iko Iko an dey_

_Betcha five dollars he can kill you dead_

_Chakko mo fi-na-ney_


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** See Part One

**A/N:** Last ditch effort. See if the boys can rise above the impossible and get out alive!

**Part Seven**

**BAM!**

The slap hit his ears first, his hearing returning like a blaring fire alarm, although the first thing he heard was the echoing silence. He fell backwards onto the hard wood planks, his back smacking flat against it. He gasped for a breath and then another as his body rolled on the dirty floor. It hurt. Everywhere. There had been a bolt of pain to his chest that had sent him flying and brought him back to his senses. Dean fanned his hand over his middle and he felt the burn. Hot, stingy, memorable. He'd been there before. Shrapnel. He could smell the sizzle of salt burning his chest and Dean's orbs broke away from his body, catching a glimpse of something… not natural.

Amanda's spirit seemed to be fractured, recovering from her premature exit from her host. She faded in and out, clinging to her atmosphere, grasping invisible holds on her surroundings. Her dark sockets gazed across the room and Dean followed, seeing the smoking barrel of his shotgun pointed directly at him.

Emily stood jumpy and distraught, the sawed-off dropping from her hands in a clunk to the floor. Her right hand reached down and scooped up Sam's glock and pointed it towards Amanda. Two shots of consecrated iron into her old friend's form. The young spirit rocketed backwards, loosing her fragile balance and fell towards Dean. He pulled the silver from behind his waistband and aimed up. The ghost tumbled back as the hunter sat up and plummeted the blade into the cold, feeling the shiv hit resistance. Amanda's head pulled back and she released an unholy scream. A cloud of fog started to emit from her side as Dean pulled the silver out and plunged in again, white mist exploding in pressure points along her damaged form. Pieces and particles of the apparition broke away, melting on contact as Amanda disappeared into the dense air.

Emily held the shaky gun in her frail hands. She looked from left to right. And her eyes stopped on Dean. "Is she gone?"

"Not really." He pushed off with the palm of his hand. His skin tore and ripped from the tiny pieces of metal embedded in his torso. He got to his knees and crawled to Sam, his own bloody hands grabbing at his brother's jacket. He heaved the dead weight with him as he stood. He didn't let himself think, didn't put two and two together, catching the massacre that was his brother's face and throat. His thought process was on one thing only – get the Hell out of there.

He motioned with his head as he hoisted Sam awkwardly up. "Try the door."

Emily turned the knob and the old oak cracked open. She shot a glance to Dean behind her shoulder as he pulled an immobile Sam out into the hallway. The young mother tried to grab the gangly legs that Dean was dragging backwards down the staircase. Dean reached the front door and said a quick prayer as he rolled the handle and then wasted no time when it flew open rushing he and Emily out of the house, carrying Sam with them.

The three headed down the walkway, still scattered with fallen snow. The morning sun was shining down on them as they kept the brisk pace, not looking back. Dean noted it was much warmer on the outside than it had been inside the walls of the notorious haunt.

"To the street! To the street!" Dean pulled Sam and Emily along. He didn't intend on stopping anywhere on the grounds of the murder house. The street would actually be the safest place to examine his brother's body.

They stopped not far from the Impala and eased Sam down onto the asphalt. Dean crouched over him and placed his fingers over his jugular. No pulse. His ear pressed down next to his chest. No air exchange. No movement at all.

"Oh, God," Dean breathed. He tilted Sam's neck back and gave him two breaths, watching his chest rise and fall. He went to his knees and started chest compressions, counting to fifteen. He glanced around for Emily's assistance but the young woman had wandered aimlessly away, up to the corner of the street, staring ruefully at the STOP sign.

"Emily!" Dean hollered to her. "I need your help!" Two more breaths. Chest up. Chest down. Compressions.

She ignored him or didn't hear, he wasn't quite sure which one. "Emily!" he tried again. Two more breaths.

"I've called 911. But it'll take a few minutes. They're coming in from Clarinda." It was the voice of an angel, creeping up behind Dean. He stole a quick look behind him as an elderly hand rested on his shoulder and crepitus knees gave way as an old woman with white kinky hair knelt down beside the hunter. She was at least seventy-years-old as she assessed the unconscious man in front of her. Gingerly she laid her aged-spot hands down aside his neck and felt for a pulse.

"Oh, my," she exclaimed as she rapidly examined Sam with near-sighted vision. She cradled his head between her hands and raised her small marbled eyes with droopy lids to Dean. "I'm a retired RN, dear. We need to get him breathing. I'll do the puffing if you can do the hitting."

Dean was already counting his compressions aloud and he nodded through whispered numbers.

She took the two breaths and they cycled through two more times before the arthritic hands felt Sam's neck. She breathed again into Sam's mouth and let Dean pump on his chest. Two more breaths and as the big brother tired, the old woman took up the counts, letting him save his energy for later. Something inside her nagged and pulled, telling her he was going to need it.

She rested a Grandmotherly pat on Dean's clasped hands and talked him through his nerves and adrenaline.

"Slow it up. You're going too fast." And when the man slowed his pace she flashed him a large denture-filled smile. "You got it. Good. That's it."

Another cycle of breaths and compressions and Dean pulled back, watching as she felt with her pruned fingers. Her small eyes dilated and she gave a quick nod to the stranger next to her. She reached over again and patted Dean's fisted hands, positioned over Sam's chest and then she cupped them warmly.

"You got a second chance, honey."

The old lady had no idea how many second chances the Winchester men had tucked under their belts.

Shiny green eyes darted from the old to the young, emotion thick, not certain if things were fitting right, but it felt warm. It was a silent victory. Sam didn't cough or sputter or vomit or cry. He just laid still, his right arm crossed over his lower abdomen, his eyes squeezed shut. But the bluish hue around his lips was dissipating, giving way to a much more welcomed pale pink dressing his dry lips.

Dean finally felt like he could breathe again, his own chest still on fire from the pelting of sharp metal. He rocked back on his heels and stared wearily at the old woman.

"Thank-you," he ground out.

A smile started to turn on her face when it was suddenly lost. "Oh, my!" she exclaimed for the second time and she attempted to feebly push herself up to her feet.

There was a perfect bang that cracked through the air, making Dean's shoulders jitter and his head turn in a 180-degree turn.

Like Sam, Emily was laying on the street with her left hand draped across her abdomen. Red ran quickly and freely from her temple and in her right hand, she loosely held Sam's glock.

Dean and the old lady reached her within seconds but it was too late. They were always too late.

"Oh, Emily," the old woman sighed. "Couldn't leave your baby alone in the dark, could you?"

A lump wedged in Dean's throat that wouldn't push down. For a fleeting beat his thoughts flew to his brother. He was so happy Sam wasn't awake for this. It would've killed him.

Dean was racked. Too much too soon. Too human. Too Supernatural. He could feel his vision dimming and the air around him becoming opaque. It was so hard to breathe. Which struck him funny because he was looking at the sweet mother laying lifelessly, the blood running away from her and she was having a hard time breathing, too.

Dean was getting smaller standing on the streets of Villisca, Iowa. He was shrinking, his body bent forward and the red spilling towards him started to swirl.

"Honey," the old woman pulled Dean back and he almost fell into her small arms. "You couldn't have done anything. She had to go."

Dean lifted his eyes to the white-haired woman, her words spliced through to his soul, a reminder of the responsibility behind him. Dean glanced back at Sam's body, still unmoving. "Ma'am," he swallowed hard, "I have to get my brother and go."

She took a long look back over to the younger boy and then back to the older one, her eyes searching. "You don't have any matches, do you?"

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Yeah. In my trunk."

She looked at the old murder house and then back. "Can I have all of them?"

A slow, understanding nod. "Yes, ma'am."

With Sam folded in the safety of leather seats, Dean handed over the box of matches he had stashed, under the machete. He threw in some lighter fluid and one of his best lighters. Dean offered to stay and take care of it, but the lady refused. He had other things to take care of and she figured no one would ever suspect a seventy-year-old woman as an arsonist. In return, the old nurse gave Dean a roll of gauze and tape and some painkillers. "Give him Tylenol in between. Don't give him aspirin or Advil. It will only make the bleeding worse."

Dean nodded as the sirens sounded. He reminded her of the other body still stuck in the house and to be sure the EMT's retrieved it with the front door propped open. She didn't question, she only nodded in agreement. The kick-ass demon hunter then bent down and gave the woman a peck on her cheek, breathing another thank-you to her. She blushed and smeared her cheek. When Dean's eyes constricted towards her, her face lit up. "Oh, I'm not rubbing it off, dear, I'm rubbing it in."

The Impala turned over with a soft grumble under her belly. His baby had missed them, too. Dean glanced up one more time at the old house and narrowed his eyes at a hollow figure standing in one of the upstairs windows. A man dressed in nighttime clothes looked out to him. His hand raised up and waved as though he were saying good-bye. Dean gulped and considered going up to check but then a moan released from the backseat. Some things were more important than investigating shadows. He pulled the wheel to the left with ease, turning to do a U-turn, pausing at the woman as he rolled the window part way down. She was waiting close to Emily's body for the ambulance, gun replaced where it had landed after being wiped off and re-smeared with only Emily's fingerprints.

"I'm sorry - what's your name?" Dean called out to her, trying his best not to make it sound like an afterthought.

She looked back, the sun hitting a lamp pole behind her, causing a halo effect around her head. Dean could see she was smiling. "Mary. Mary Stinson."

Hell, maybe she was an angel after all.

WWW

Sam saw Dean before he even knew he was seeing him. In the in between stages of awake and asleep and alert and unconscious, Sam would arouse. Where he was seemed to be a big part of his thought process. Dark colors. Musty smell. Dull lights. He was aware of water at his mouth. Pills on his tongue. The strange comfort of Motel 6 hospitality. In an odd way it was very soothing and reassuring for him. But maybe that was just the familiar hands.

He knew Dean was there. Although he didn't see or hear him. He could smell him, though and he could feel the calloused fingers at his lips, on the back of his neck when he swallowed. He was there.

When Sam did finally wake up he was talking mid-sentence, babbling to himself about a hunt he was on. He woke abruptly from it. He'd been hunting alone in his dream. Then he realized it was a memory from a couple of months before when the trickster had put a whammy on him and made reality a deception.

He looked to the left, the bed reserved for his older brother and found it made-up and empty. For a heart pounding moment he thought the memory was real. He was alone. Dean had died already and…

…And there he was. Pressed up against the far wall, hands jammed in his jean pockets, watching Sam in moody silence. His weight shifted under his feet as his back stayed glued to the wall. Sam sat up a bit, pushing up from the mattress on elbows not quite ready to take the assault his body had waiting for him.

"Dean." Oh, God, that was painful. Sam's hand reached up and circled his neck feeling the open sores, the new crusts of blood on scabs, the braided and bruised skin. He blinked and became acutely aware of his left eye. His fingertips grazed it. Twice, probably three times the size of what it normally should have been. Hard to see out of and his cheek underneath was bandaged. He could feel the wetness seep through the white, fresh blood still seeping through torn flesh.

Then he remembered Dean and his dark hazels trying to suffocate him. Sam trying to talk him out of the chokehold. Willing him to see through the madness and come back to him.

It must have worked because Sam was alive and Dean was here. Well, way over there, keeping his distance, but he was there. Mind over possession had conquered.

"Dean." Sam grated again. He patted the bed beside him. Plenty of room. The older hunter just stared, holding up the support beams for the hotel. His eyes were no longer dark hazel and possessed to kill. They had now regained their owner and they were shimmering and full. Sam wanted to pry, wanted to see what secrets Dean would tell by looking in. He patted the mattress again, harder and his brother grudgingly rolled off the wall and shuffled towards the bed. He took the edge seat, sitting evasively with his back to Sam.

Sam yanked on his brother's shirt like a four-year-old and watched with his one good eye as Dean turned. His skin was pale, freckles popping out in odd patterns across his face. Dark purple colored the circles above his cheeks and encased his eyes with exhaustion. The hazels flooded with an abyss that shined of Dean and when Sam looked to see, the abyss reflected back the one thing that meant the most to his soul. Sam. Even Dean's windows curtained Sam from what was really inside his brother.

Sam's throat worked, bobbing up and down, feeling the dry pinches and clamps from the force. "Aw, Dean…" his older brother looked away, taking with him all the light that mattered to Sam.

Then Sam really started to hurt. Dean always made it hard.

"It's… not your fault."

There was a quick nod, but his brother kept his back to him. He was at war, beating himself up, knocking himself down, tearing away his esteem. Losing without surrendering.

"You have to…" Sam hesitated, "talk to me, man." His voice wasn't his. It was a battered version caused by the weakness of his protector. Strangled and corroded just like his neck. Sam's voice was a reminder to the older hunter of what was and what happened and what he was incapable of without even having to take a peek.

Dean cleared his throat. Maybe it was in empathy, maybe it was because his voice was afflicted with its own atrophy.

"Almost killed you, Sam." It came out fast, he was rushing through his words, belittling his own feelings. Making himself unimportant, invisible.

Sam pulled on his shirt again. This time he didn't let go. "Wasn't you."

A snort. Half-hearted, half-artificial. "Looked like me."

Sam gave him a small smile even if he didn't see it, he'd be sure he could hear it. "Nah. Just a wax look-alike. But I could tell the imitation from the real thing." He tugged on the shirt and waited. There was no response from Dean except the fact that his head hung a bit lower and he seemed to grow even quieter. "Dean," Sam begged. He pulled himself up further in the bed as his older brother swung his knee up and bent it, pulling half his body towards the younger.

It was better than nothing.

Dean stared. He didn't look at the damage. He'd already mapped it out when Sam was asleep anyways. No, this time he stared _at_ Sam. Brooding in silence.

Sam tried again. "What is it?"

The older man turned his head, tiny sweat beads splattered Dean's brow, his eyes downcast, focused on something not so important anymore. He shook his head in defeat. "Thought I lost you… again."

Sam nodded. It was Dean's silent fear. Being back at Cold Oak. Being alone. Face to face with all his failures and all his accomplishments. And all his pain. No big deal.

Regardless of his own anger over the selfish act his brother committed ten months ago, Sam had to let go. He had to be bigger than himself. He had to be like Dean and forgive. Sam released Dean's shirttail and pulled himself up doggedly into a more comfortable sitting position. Nothing stayed comfortable for long.

"I'm glad I'm here, Dean." His brother looked up. "Thanks." And when his brother steadied on him, Sam went on, "You can let yourself off the hook." Dean looked away yet again, not able to accept, only able to give.

Sam sighed. It was a tight rope and balancing act when they used words. More terrified to fall into the lion's mouth expressing their hidden feelings than in fighting vengeful spirits. Sam lightened the room. "Used my Jedi mind trick, huh? Or did you figure out how to break on through to the other side?"

It took Dean a few beats to figure out where Sam was coming from. "Oh. No. It was… Emily."

Sam's face frowned, expressing back his confusion.

"Dude, she snapped out of it and hit me with the sawed-off." Dean lifted his shirt slightly, showing off his own battle scars. "We got you out and," he smiled, "some old lady ran across the street. Helped me revive you."

"Revive me?"

"Yeah, I told you, I thought I'd lost you."

Sam didn't realize his brother was being so literal. "Oh." A familiar tune rang inside of Sam.

_Don't let the past remind us of what we are not now._

_I am not dreaming…_

"After I got you here, I went up to the bluff and dug up the bodies. Salt and burned them both. Should be over."

Sam looked over to the windows then and noticed it was dark outside. He caught a quick glance at the clock. 1:33 a.m.

"It's night."

"Yeah."

"How long've I been out?"

"Over eighteen hours."

The look on Sam's face made Dean chuckle. "You needed your beauty rest, Cinderella."

"You sleep?"

Dean winked his answer.

Sam tried an attempt at a smile, but his cheek pulled and twitched at the pressure. "I thought it was the… I thought I…" he breathed heavily, but his brother waited. "I thought it was me." It sounded stupid and childish and he turned red after saying it. "Emily… she did good."

The older brother didn't want to talk about Emily. He wanted to just smooth it all out in the blankets of security and leave it alone. Chock it up under the column _Things That Dean Should Only Know_. He could easily create a façade for Sam, give him a happy ending to the fairy tale. Emily was alive and putting her life back together and dreaming of another baby and… secrets and lies. He had to choose what secrets he kept and what lies he told and sometimes he had to let things go, too. Even if that meant telling the truth once in a while.

"Emily did great. She was amazing. I didn't think she had all that strength in her. She saved you. Saved me." He cut off, chewing on his lip.

But she wasn't strong enough to save herself.

"What, Dean?"

"She, uh," he sucked it up, "she shot herself."

The silence laid over them both. Smothering, not warming. "She died?" he knew the answer but asked in spite of himself. Dean never spoke, just hung his head low, gave a sad nod.

Sam wiped away the wetness running down his good cheek. They hadn't saved anybody. They'd all died. He'd wished Dean had just let him be. Let him die. It would be so much simpler. He shook his head. It didn't make sense. Someone had to have been saved.

"More people would've died, Sam." Dean cut into his thoughts. "We did everything we could."

"Doesn't feel like it."

"Never does."

It was hard being a Winchester. Dean glanced over to his little brother, his gaze towards him, but not at him, clouded someplace where the older wasn't allowed to go.

"Sammy." Dean's voice scrubbed out, he saw Sam startle for a second like he'd forgotten Dean was there. He reached his right hand towards the younger man to give comfort, rub his shoulder, to do _something_.

But it was too fast, too high and too soon.

With cat like reflexes that surprised both hunters, Sam's legs retracted in and flailed out, kicking his older brother in his side. Dean toppled over the mattress and fell on his upper back and neck onto the short napped carpet. Sam pushed with such force that he sent his own body barreling the opposite way, crashing himself into the side table between the beds of the motel room and finally coming to rest on the carpeting below.

Sam pulled himself up quickly and sat with his knees drawn in, embarrassed at his sudden actions. He listened as the body on the other side of the bed scrambled up and then remained silent. Sam could see wisps of Dean's dark blonde spikes peaking out from over the covers. He saw his brother rub the back of his head and then shake it roughly. His mouth opened to speak and then his jaw clicked shut when he found that he really didn't know what he should say.

"Sam?" Dean called over, sounding a bit irritated.

His eyes shifted down, staring at his hands. "Yeah?" It was a muted sound, barely audible.

"You know I'm not possessed anymore, right?" There was no heat held in his brother's voice.

His hands started chasing thumbs. "Yeah."

"Okay, then," Dean shifted on the carpet. "I'm coming over."

Sam watched as the dark blonde disappeared from the other side of the mattress and then reappeared as Dean crawled from around the bottom of the bed. He climbed over the mound of blankets that had fallen when Sam went over and finally rest next to the younger Winchester, both their backs against Dean's bed.

Dean took the first shot over, surveying the messy hair, the loosened bandage, the broken face, the strayed little brother. He looked back down at his own calloused hands, blood stuck under his fingernails. Sam's blood.

One mouth would open silently and then the other. Neither knowing where to start because they were always at the beginning. Never able to get past the night that changed it all for everyone. The fire that snuffed out the heartbeat of the Winchester family. From that moment on, things were always difficult to muddle through. Especially words. They were often lost in translation.

"I'm sorry." Dean stammered out.

Wet eyes met him. Sam gave a one-shouldered shrug. "No, It's not you."

"You kicked me off the bed."

"I know. Sorry 'bout that. I didn't mean to… it just sorta happened."

"Yeah, well, I sorta happened to get possessed."

"I know." Sam looked away. "I know it wasn't you."

It didn't make Dean feel any better. Their lives were weird. Hard to breathe sometimes. Hard to talk. Hard to trust.

"What were you hunting in your dream?" Dean tried.

Sam stared back again. "What?"

He gestured towards the bed. "You've been dreaming all day. Hunting. I listened but I couldn't figure out what hunt we were on."

Sam thought about waking up, not seeing Dean. He wasn't alone, but for a few seconds… "A wraith."

"Where?"

"Seattle."

"I don't remember us hunting a wraith…"

"Cuz I haven't hunted it yet and you weren't with me."

That got the older man's attention. His heart skipped a beat and then found a much more rapid rhythm then it had held before. He tried to respond to that but all that returned was a shaky breath.

"Don't worry," Sam continued, "It wasn't a vision. It was the trickster."

"Come again?"

Sam's eyes slid around. "The trickster when you died. He made me, you know, live without you for a while. Wanted to teach me a lesson."

Dean shut his eyes, feeling a heat wash over his body. He released a curse word and then another. Sam was quiet, letting his brother process.

"So you kept hunting?" Dean thumped his head back on the side of the mattress.

"I guess. More like… killing."

Dean huffed. "Yeah? What does that mean?" Sam didn't respond to him and a horror paled the older man's face. His mouth jerked into a strange chagrin as he pressed warily on. "You… turned into something?"

Sam leaned forward and nodded, a lump lodging in his throat. "Yeah," he answered honestly, "Dad."

Dean blinked a few time times. Wasn't exactly the answer he was expecting, could have been a lot worse. But this was Sam. He hadn't stayed true to himself without Dean watching his back. He wasn't able to hold on to his own light, he had let it go to survive the life Dean chose for him.

Dean placed a warm palm on his brother's back, rubbing his t-shirt in small bunches. "How long?"

Sam wasn't sure exactly what the question meant but he ventured a response. "Six months."

More cursing and the hand stilled and squeezed his brother's shoulder. It was calming for Sam. It brought him back to when he was eight and had fallen off his bike in front of the entire neighborhood. Dean had rushed to help. And the time when he was fourteen and he had been dragged out of a haunted house… Dean had been there for him, too. He was as close to home as he could get.

"If you don't talk about it, Sam, then it's like it never happened." Dean prompted his brother. "And I think you matter enough to, you know, tell me." He felt the shiver from Sam's arm reflect on his own. "I can't make it go away, but I can listen."

Sam gave in, then, words falling out faster than he gave himself credit for. He told Dean about his journey. About the motels and the hunting. About Bobby and the Not Bobby. And finding the damned trickster and begging for more time. The humility in the pleading. He told him about the loneliness and missing his brother and about how he had turned into a monster. A human kind And there was no one there to save him from it.

Dean's heart cracked and bled listening to the memory, knowing it was Sam's future.

The older brother couldn't offer any words. Couldn't say he was sorry for putting the younger man in this position. Certainly couldn't stop the future from coming.

He turned his body, crossing his legs Indian style to direct his attention to what he could do. Help the survivor now. He surveyed the damage falling off of Sam's face. Tattered bandages, blood stained and dangling held up by loosened tape. Dean grappled at the fallen 2X2's and medical tape that had rolled along the carpet off the side table Sam had knocked off on his way down from the mattress.

"I'm gonna take care of that," his voice warned Sam, pointing at his cheek. "No need to Tyson me. Okay?"

Sam nodded.

Dean reached up and pulled off the white from the younger man's face and used his dry, rough hands to press the bandage back into place.

Sam winced at the pressure, watching his brother's arm under his white t-shirt flex with the force.

"You look like shit," he heard Dean mumble over his head. It was toneless but Sam could feel the hurt the older Winchester carried with him. Dean finished and his body pulled back, admiring his first rate handy-work. "Well, you're prettier than you were before, Sally." Then he really noticed Sam. Extra wrinkles covered his forehead, worry lines crow-footed out from his young eyes. His mouth turned down into a permanent frown, his cheek twitching unconsciously. The death sentence was eating his brother alive. Making him an old man.

Dean's arms suddenly reached across Sam's personal space and grabbed at him fiercely. Sam let his body pull forward and he laid his forehead onto his brother's shoulder and stilled.

The monster was gone for now and his brother had returned for a couple more months. And he was there to nurse and to heal and to save. Because that's what Hans Solo would do.

"I believe in you, Dean," Sam squeaked out, his voice giving him away.

A loose arm fit comfortably around his broad shoulders and rubbed. Dean's hold wasn't strangling like his possessed self had faked him out to be. No, the real deal was exactly what the younger brother needed. It was warm and easy.

"I know," Dean replied. "I heard you say it to me before."

Which struck them both as funny because Sam hadn't ever spoken the words and Dean wasn't technically present and accounted for to hear them.

Sam pulled out of the huddle and let out a laugh, followed closely by his brother. Then more laughter occurred. It started with a childhood memory Dean shared and then avalanched into a few more. They laughed with their whole bodies. Dean watched as Sam's face broke into huge grins as he grimaced and griped about his cheeks hurting. He dimpled up, his one good eye beamed and it reminded his brother of a long ago Sammy. He didn't smile like that anymore. But when he did, he looked so different, handsome and carefree.

And Dean laughed, too. His eyes smiling just as big as his mouth. Losing himself in sidesplitting giggles that had them both rolling to and from each other on the worn carpet. Not acting at all like a man who was going to run for his life in two months. No, this man, on this night looked happy.

They talked about the car and music. A few concerts each had caught. Talked about movies and some of the greatest lines they could remember. They talked about Mom. Sam asked the same questions and Dean gave him the same answers. It was the same old song and dance, but it made them both feel good.

They talked about Dad. There was joy and pain in the memories of the mysteries and enigmas that was their father. Smiles broke through and tears fell barefaced from each brother. They revealed a couple of secrets, but kept the bigger ones to themselves. They left the past and talked about the present and what a gift it really was because the future was truly unknown. And it scared them both. But they didn't discuss that. That they would leave for another day. They embraced the night and each other and held the moment for what it was. Fleeting.

The sun came up, shining bright light into the windows and Sam retreated to his bed, Dean to his and they laid their heads down exhausted from another hunt gone bad.

"Oh, yeah, I found our next job," Dean announced as Sam started to drift to sleep.

He raised his head an inch. "What is it?" Sleep was claiming him fast.

"Morton House."

"Wuzzat?"

Dean smiled, let out a small chuckle. "Haunted house."

A groan rumbled on the other side of the room.

"But tonight we'll go to the movies."

There was a long pause and then a dreamily voice chirped out, "I get to chose."

"Yeah," Dean answered with a paternal grin. "You can chose."

With the distant sound of fire trucks lulling them, sleep finally came and took them away at 8:35 that morning. They needed it. The next couple of months was going to take everything out of them, put all they had on the line, tempt them to the point where they didn't know if they could hang on any harder. But they were Winchesters and they were all they had left. They would search together for their miracle, even though it had already came and they had missed it, blinded by the Good of this World. For this hunt, they had been the ones in need of saving. And by the grace of three residents of Villisca, Iowa they pulled together and gave the brothers another chance at finding the ultimate way to save themselves. It would take Heaven and Hell to get them out of this mess.

So they would find a way again. A way to hang on and a way to survive another day. A way to talk. Even if they had to use more than guns and knives and words and arms.

They would have to use their hearts.

**Playlist:** Excerpts from the song _Suite: Judy Blue Eyes_ from Crosby, Stills, and Nash

**A/N:** I am done! Okay, so I've only known about fanfiction land since March of this year and I want to thank everyone who has read my stuff and a huge thanks for those who reviewed. I know it's time consuming and I really appreciate it. I'm taking a break for a while and will be enjoying some fanfiction reading so if anyone has any suggestions, I'd love to hear them! I'm going to the SN Convention in Chicago in November, anyone else going? Let me know if you are! Take it easy and this was so much fun. Hope you were sometimes entertained…


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